


The Bison, The Stag, and the Songbird

by chalcedonyx



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur Morgan Does Not Die From Tuberculosis, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexual Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption), Domestic Violence, Dutch van der Linde Has a Plan, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hosea is a father-figure to Reader, M/M, Micah Bell Being an Asshole, Multi, Mutual Pining, OT3, Period Typical Attitudes, Polyamory, Protective Arthur Morgan, Protective Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption), Self-Insert, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, assumes knowledge of canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 84,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalcedonyx/pseuds/chalcedonyx
Summary: Hosea's words echo in Arthur's mind:She's had a rough go of it. I want her to feel comfortable with us.Beneath your portrait, he scrawls your name and a phrase:A golden cage is still a cage.An Arthur Morgan/Reader fic that evolves naturally into Arthur/Charles/Reader.Experience the rise and fall of the Van der Linde gang through the eyes of Johanna Hawkins, a singer and dancer turned outlaw who joins the gang in their early days after being rescued from an abusive husband and a suffocating life of domesticity.I try to update every other Monday.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith/Reader, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Reader, Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Original Female Character(s), Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Reader, Hosea Matthews & Reader
Comments: 124
Kudos: 147





	1. The Moon Will Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We could have had anything, anything else  
>  Instead you hoarded all that's left of me  
> Swallowing your doubt  
> Like swords to the pit of my belly  
> [I want to feel the fire that you kept from me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwhec-xnWfY)_   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been sitting on this fic idea for about two years now but haven't had the courage or clarity to post it until now because of how personal it is to me. Sufficed to say, I am using this fic to explore and process some of my own unresolved trauma and feelings of powerlessness left over from my years struggling with domestic abuse. As such, there will persistent direct or implied references to and descriptions of abusive situations, mental, physical, and sexual. I will give more descriptive warnings in the notes before the start of each chapter as needed, but I wanted to give fair warning here as well.

_Indiana, 1892._

The heat of early July radiates through the atmosphere while birds caw and croon overhead, and the sounds of the hustle and bustle of a busy livestock town are constant.

"Afternoon, folks," Arthur mumbles politely, tipping his hat to the men sitting on the porch of the Sheriff's Office. They nod to him wordlessly and he pushes the door open. 

Inside, a lawman sits at the front desk, his boots propped up on the polished wood as he leans back in his chair. 

"Well, hello, son," he says. "How can I help you?"

"I'm lookin' for some bounties," Arthur answers, hooking his thumbs on his gun belt.

"Oh, bounty hunter, huh?"

Arthur nods. 

"Well, we got plenty of 'em," the lawman says, gesturing lazily to the bulletin board on the wall behind him. "Take your pick."

Arthur moseys up to the board, perusing the various posters for something worth his time. 

_Wanted: Percy Gable. Burglary. $30 Reward._

_Wanted: Dennis Cash. Robbery. $25 Reward._

_Missing: Johanna Dulvey. $500 Reward._

Arthur does a double-take at that one, studying the sketch of a young woman's face. Clipped to the poster is a photograph of her, sitting patiently but expressionless in a velvet chair, her slight frame garbed in a simple white lace dress. Then he reads further:

_Last seen near the state line, just outside of Schuman's Orchard. See Dalton Dulvey for details._

"Huh," he murmurs to himself, scrubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin as he reaches for the poster.

"Whatcha got?" The lawman asks, pulling his feet down off his desk and sitting up straight.

"Why's this missing poster up here with the bounties? She ain't wanted for a crime, is she?"

"Well, not as far as I know. But Mr. Dulvey couldn't get anybody to go lookin' for her without givin' a bounty for her safe return."

"And why's she missin'? She get kidnapped or somethin'?" Arthur asks, examining the poster further. 

"Not quite," the lawman answers. "Mr. Dulvey said she ran off."

"Ran off?" Arthur puzzles. 

"Yessir," the lawman nods. "I don't know all the details of her affliction, but apparently Missus Dulvey suffers from illness of the mind. He says she's always been a little," the lawman trails off, searching for the right word. "Well, _off_ , I guess."

"Off," Arthur repeats the word. 

"Sure. He said she got to thinkin' that he was holdin' her there against her will and she just finally had enough and took off on her own." The lawman glances around before leaning in to whisper the next part: "Apparently she's tried to, well, take her own life on several occasions. When she left she made off with quite a bit of money, too."

"S'at right?" Arthur asks, brows perking up slightly. 

"You didn't hear it from me."

"So, why the big reward for her? Seems like a lot of trouble for a poor mad girl."

"Well," the lawman lifts his hat off his head so he can scratch his temple. "Love does crazy things to a man, I suppose."

Arthur nods. He knows plenty about that.

"Mr. Dulvey, he loves his wife. Doesn't want to see her sent off to a sanitorium to suffer, you know. So he's willing to get her back by any means necessary, I suppose."

Arthur thinks it over for a moment before finally folding up the poster and tucking it into his satchel. 

"So, where can I find this Mr. Dulvey? Wanna ask him a few questions, see if I can pick up the trail."

"I can promise you he'll be more than grateful if you bring his wife back. He lives at the edge of town in that big ol' estate. Blue siding, iron gates. You can't miss it." The lawman points out the door, gesturing animatedly in the air.

"Thanks, partner," Arthur says as he tips his hat and heads out the door.

"Best of luck to you, now!" The lawman calls after him.

* * *

The Dulvey Estate is huge. Pretentiously large. 

As Arthur's horse trots across the grounds, his eyes wander over the stretching fields of crops, the large pastures for livestock and horses. The lavish stables, bustling with activity. A guard on horseback meets him halfway to the front of the manor, and Arthur shows him the missing poster. He is escorted to the house and sat down in a lavish tea room for an audience with Mr. Dulvey, and he resists the urge to make his discomfort plainly visible. 

"Mr. Callahan, I presume?" A warm voice drawls, pulling Arthur's attention away from the window, from where he can see a roving grazing pasture dotted with horses. 

A tall, lean, mature-looking man with swept back brown hair and a neatly manicured beard enters the room. Garbed in an expensive-looking riding outfit, he removes his gloves before reaching out to shake Arthur's hand. 

"And you must be Mr. Dulvey," Arthur says, shaking the man's hand. 

"Please, call me Dalton," the man insists politely before gesturing for Arthur to have a seat. 

"Alright," Arthur says as he sinks into the cushions of the sofa. He props an arm on the back of the plush couch and makes himself comfortable. 

"I get the sense that you value your time, Mr. Callahan, and I value mine, so I'll get right down to it. I hear you're interested in the bounty reward for my wife," Dalton says, pouring himself a cup of tea the color of whiskey.

Something about the man's swagger almost reminds Arthur of Dutch, but his mannerisms and age felt closer to Hosea's. His accent sounded far too southern to belong all the way up in Indiana; an elegant, molasses-like drawl, but Arthur couldn't place it. 

"That's right. Wanted to get some more details about the whole thing 'fore I just go graspin' at straws."

"Good on you," Dalton says as he fixes his tea, stirring in two sugar cubes with a thin spoon. "Smart. Anything you'd like to know, I'll try to fill you in."

"Lawman said she'd just run off. Told me she was… troubled."

"Ah," Dalton says, visibly wounded by the thought. "Yes. Johanna - my wife - she's… well, she can be a sordid sort on a bad day. I knew it when I married her. Her daddy told me so. She'd suffered with some kind of paranoid affliction ever since she was young. But I was so taken with her," Dalton sighs in exasperation. "Are you married, Mr. Callahan?"

"Ain't had the pleasure," Arthur laughs dryly.

"Well," Dalton continues. "You'll have your chance, I'm sure. Capable, strappin' young man like yourself."

"Oh, I ain't sure about that," Arthur protests as he rubs the back of his neck. "Most people think I got less sense than a bag of hammers. And I think bein' a bounty hunter scares the women away."

Dalton laughs, the sound resonating deep in his chest. 

"Well, in any case, I'm sure you've heard how love can make a man do crazy things."

"That I have," Arthur nods. 

"I love Johanna. I knew I wanted to marry her almost right away. But that - that illness - spiritual, physical, metaphysical, whatever it is that's got ahold of her," Dalton explains, moving his hands animatedly as he talks. "It has a grip on her somethin' fierce, Mr. Callahan. And I've tried - God above, help me, I've tried everything - to loosen its wicked hand around her." Dalton squeezes his fist closed dramatically. "But I'll tell you, it has been the fight of my life. Her daddy gave up on her long ago. Told me I'd be better off sending her away to rot in some sanitorium. But she ain't one of those dumb, droolin' invalids - pardon my phrasin'. She's a lovely woman when she's got clarity."

"Is that why she ran off?" Arthur asks. 

"Yes. She got it in her mind that I was holdin' her prisoner. And I do keep a close watch on her for her own good, but it ain't like she can't come and go as she pleases. Anyway, one night, middle of the night, she makes this dramatic escape, steals off with a hefty sum and one of my best horses. None of my men have been able to find her, and they've scarcely seen hide nor hair of her since."

"Says here she was last seen up near the state line."

"Yes, and while that is just conjecture, I'm inclined to believe it, only because it's based on the sight of my horse outside the general store up that way. The horse somebody saw was a silver dapple pinto - I don't know how much you know about horses, Mr. Callahan, but it's quite a rare variety."

"Damn," Arthur says incredulously. "You'd think she'd have taken a less noticeable horse."

"You'd think," Dalton says in agreement. "But I suspect she took that one as a means to spite me."

"You sure she's worth all this trouble? No offense, but it just seems like it'd be easier to cut her loose."

"Unfortunately, I think you may be right," Dalton concedes. "But I can't. I can't give up on her like everyone else in her life. She needs me to save her from herself."

Someone from the house staff appears in the doorway then, signaling to Dalton that he's late for something, and Dalton sets his teacup down on the tray before rising from his seat.

"Well, that's… certainly honorable, Mr. Dulvey. I'll get to lookin' for her."

"Thank you, Mr. Callahan. From one busy man to another, I know you're in it for the money, so I wanted to apologize for talkin' your ear off by offerin' you double the reward if you can bring back the horse with her."

"Double?!" Arthur says, his brows shooting up toward his hairline.

"Yes. That horse is one of my most prized studs. And frankly, I am tired of the chase. Please, bring her home to me."

"I will do my best," Arthur promises. 

"And, Mr. Callahan," Dalton adds, standing in the doorway. "I fear that Johanna might do just about anythin' in her power not to come back. She'll fight you tooth and nail. Think of her as a wild cat. She spooks easy, so I'd be very careful."

"Duly noted," Arthur says. "Thank you."

"No, thank you," Dalton says. "The grounds staff will see you out. I pray that the next time we meet, you'll be bringing my wife home to me."

* * *

It takes just short of a week to track her down. 

Half a day's ride from the Dulvey Estate, he finds her empty camp hidden in a thicket in some woods by a lake.

The silver pinto is there, grazing lazily beside a tree, and it hardly stirs at Arthur's arrival. 

Just before nightfall, she returns, carrying a burlap sack over her shoulder and mumbling quietly to herself. Arthur surveils her from the treeline, waiting for her to settle in as he tries to parse out the best angle of attack. She drops the sack by the fire and practically skips over to the horse. It picks its head up to greet her and she cradles its face before pressing a kiss to its forehead.

"Hi there, Trinket," she says, her voice soft and kind. "Get up to any mischief while I was gone?"

The horse snorts and gives its neck a shake, tossing its mane, and Johanna laughs, the sound genuine and soothing. He catches sight of her smiling face in the fading sunlight, and feels his cheeks flush at how profoundly elegant she is. Brunette hair pulled into a long braid down her back. Shining, green eyes, and alabaster skin. A sharp cupid's bow and soft pink lips. A pointed nose and full, angled eyebrows.

Suddenly, Arthur feels a pang of guilt deep in the pit of his stomach. This was a private moment, one he was not meant to see. He wonders if he should leave well enough alone. But then he hears the voice of Dutch in the back of his mind, admonishing him for leaving behind an easy $1000, in addition to not helping a lovesick man and his poor, mad wife. 

He risks moving a little closer once she's away from the horse, and decides to approach with his hands empty. 

In the encroaching dark, he does not see the branch that snaps under his boot, and Johanna practically jumps out of her skin, gasping in surprise as she whirls in his direction with her knife drawn.

She waits, squinting in the dark as she tries to discern if what she heard was an animal or man.

"Pardon me, miss," he ventures calmly, stepping out of the bushes with his hands raised in surrender. 

She watches him approach, visibly trembling, the knife shaking in her hand. 

"I'm sorry," he offers politely, as if speaking to a frightened horse. "I didn't mean to frighten you," he continues.

Finally, she responds:

"Why are you sneakin' around in the dark? What do you want?"

"I don't want no trouble ma'am," he answers. "I'm just passin' through. Saw you had a fire goin' and thought I might warm my bones for a bit. Mind if I sit with you?"

She glances back to the horse briefly, as if she is weighing her options.

"You can hang onto the knife, if you want. I'll stay on the far side from you."

Nothing.

"It's awful cold out tonight, and I've still got a ways to go before I make it to where I'm headed."

She still doesn't respond for a moment. Finally she lets out a quiet breath through her nose and her shoulders deflate. 

"Fine," she says, barely-contained protest simmering just below the surface. "Sit."

"Thank you, ma'am," Arthur says. "You won't even know I'm here."

She only glares at him, nodding politely as if to say, _you’re welcome._

She waits for him to take his seat before she takes her own. She eyes Arthur carefully as she roasts a can of beans over the fire. The smell wafts through the air as Johanna serves her meal, and as she takes her first few bites, Arthur's stomach growls audibly. 

Her eyes flick up to his and she pauses as if trying to decide if she should share. Finally, she stands up and crosses to his side to offer him his own can. 

"Oh, you don't have to - I'm fine, Miss."

She hesitates, as if waiting for him to change his mind, before returning to her side of the fire. 

"Suit yourself."

It's so quiet he's not even sure she really said it.

She finishes her meal and cleans her face with a handkerchief before she takes a long sip from her canteen. 

"You're pretty capable," Arthur says, gesturing to the fire. 

She gives him a quizzical look, brows slanted. 

"Ain't often you find a woman all by herself out in the wilderness. Seem to be fendin' for yourself pretty well."

"Pretty capable, for a woman, you mean," she utters in a low voice. 

"I didn't mean nothin' by it, Miss. Just unusual, is all." He shrugs. 

She doesn't respond to him. 

"Mind if I ask what you're doin' out here all by yourself?" He ventures calmly. 

Silence. 

Then a change in her posture. She crosses her arms and fixes him with a square look. "What happened to, 'you won't know I'm here?'" She asks. 

He doesn't answer. 

"Look, Mister, all due respect, it's none of your business."

"Alright," he concedes. "I'm sorry. Look, I'll get outta your hair. I've bothered you enough tonight."

He gets up and dusts himself off. 

"It's just, I'm lookin' for somebody. Friend of mine is real worried about his wife. She's gone missin' and I thought maybe you were her."

She tenses up, almost imperceptibly. 

"But, I don't think she knows how to survive in the wild, so maybe not."

"Sorry about your friend," she says, as if she's forcing it. "Hope you find her."

"Thank you. Be honest with you, I saw you, thought I _had_ found her. My friend, he's real bent outta shape about it. Most lovesick fool I ever seen."

She gulps, reaching for her knife. 

"And Miss, I'd leave you alone, except I was asked specifically to also bring back a horse, looks just like _that_ ," he nudges his head in the direction of her horse. "So, ya see how I could've mixed you up."

She doesn't say anything, but the look in her eyes communicates enough: she knows that he knows. 

"You don't know what he's like," she croaks out quietly as she shakes her head. "No one outside the estate does. He ain’t the man he says he is. But no one believes me."

“Miss, we can do this real easy,” Arthur explains calmly. “You come with me, I’ll help you get home safe. He ain’t upset with you, he just wants you home. You’ve gotta be missin’ your warm bed and all.”

“I won’t go back,” she says. “I can’t. Takin’ me back to him is as good as signin’ my death certificate.”

"He said you would say somethin’ like that."

"I could pay you," she says. "Give you money. If you just pretend you never saw me. Please.”

“Ma’am, I was already promised payment by your husband. And I’m doin’ this for your own good.”

She shakes her head violently.

“Come on, now,” Arthur requests calmly as he inches closer to her. 

“No!” She gets to her feet blindingly quick, holding the knife threateningly towards him. Poised like a feral cat to strike.

“Miss, it’s gonna be alright,” Arthur says, showing her his palms as he steps closer. They circle each other around the fire.

“I don’t wanna tie you up, but I will if I have to,” he says firmly. 

“I’d rather you shoot me,” she says. “I ain’t going back.”

“Now, Miss -”

She bolts for the horse, her agility surprising Arthur and leaving him in the dust as she climbs up into the saddle and digs her heels into the animal’s side. It whinnies, turning a circle as it starts to take off, its hooves thundering into the damp earth.

Arthur curses before sticking two fingers in his mouth and whistling for his own horse.

* * *

He grips the reins tightly as he rides, following her trail. He reaches the edge of the woods and sees her up the road, his mount starting to pull ahead.

“I ain’t goin’ back!” She yells back to him, and he readies his lasso as she reaches for something in her saddlebag.

A gunshot whizzes past Arthur’s head and he ducks in time for a second to miss him.

Her horse neighs anxiously, its pace slowing just slightly, and Johanna fires another three shots at Arthur before her horse skids to a sudden stop and throws her. She rolls across the grass and her horse prances about apprehensively. Arthur pulls his horse’s reins to stop, and he dismounts quickly to check on Johanna, who has landed lying face down in the grass.

She whirls on him, catching him across the forearm with the blade of her knife and opening a thin gash. He reels back, startled, and clutches at the wound before reaching for his lasso again.

“Have it your way, Miss,” he says angrily as he pins her down and hogties her.

“No! Please,” she screams, her voice loud and feral and raspy as if echoes through the night. “Please,” she says again, but this time she is crying, her body convulsing as she tries to wriggle out of his rope. 

“It’s gonna be alright, Miss,” Arthur says as he finishes tying her down.

"No," she weeps. "You don't understand." She's begging him now. 

She wails angrily and he makes the decision to cover her mouth with a bandana.

Once he’s calmed her horse down, he leads it back over to her and lifts her up, securing her over its back. He ties the horse off with a fair amount of rope, securing it to his saddle horn, and heads south.

She cries herself out on the trip back, doing her best to try and wriggle out of his ropes. By the time the moon hangs low in the sky, he doesn't hear her anymore, sparing a glance back to find her effectively passed out. 

When they reach the front gates of the estate, she hardly reacts. One of the patrols spots them riding in and heads straight to the house to retrieve Dalton, and Arthur meets him on the front steps of the manor. 

As Arthur pulls his horse to a stop, he sees Dalton rush out of the house in a fine set of lounging pajamas and a robe. Arthur dismounts and pulls Johanna from the other horse carefully, setting her down gently before cutting the ropes around her wrists and ankles. 

"Johanna! Oh, thank goodness you're alright!" Dalton says as he helps her stand up, pulling her in for an embrace which she does not reciprocate. She stares dead ahead at something Arthur can't see, her eyes no longer gleaming with the mirth he'd seen in them back at her campsite. Suddenly, Dalton grips her firmly by the shoulders and gives her a shake. 

"You ought to know better," he tells her. 

Her eyes snap up to his, only a moment's contemplation before her next action: she reels back and spits in his face. 

Dalton takes a step back, wiping his face furiously before he slaps her across the face with the back of his hand and she falls to the dirt. 

“You ungrateful -” he sputters angrily.

He grabs her arm and wrenches her upward so hard Arthur wonders how he didn't pull the damn thing right out of the socket. 

"Damn it, Johanna! Haven't I given you enough? Why do you insist on acting like a spoiled child?"

"Mr. Dulvey, if I may -" Arthur interjects. 

"What is it, Mr. Callahan?" Dalton whirls on him, huffing in anger before he straightens up, regaining his composure. 

"I think she’s a little shaken up. She ran from me and the horse threw her. She took a nasty tumble."

"Right," Dalton says. "Well. You managed to find her and bring her back in one piece. And with the horse, to boot. You've done me a great service, Mr. Callahan. Now, as for the matter of your payment. You'll still get what I promised. But I am going to have to move some things around to make up for what Johanna stole. I can give you half now, and half at a later date. I'll throw you a dinner or something."

"Sure," Arthur shrugs. "I ‘preciate it."

"You deserve all the gratitude, Mr. Callahan. I'd never have found her without your help."

Dalton, his fingers still white-knuckling around Johanna's upper arm, gives her another little sobering shake, and she startles, her eyes darting around. She clutches at her face, now bright red, and tears roll freely down her cheeks. 

"Tell Mr. Callahan thank you," Dalton tells her firmly. “He went to a lot of trouble to find you.”

“Thank you,” she croaks out, and it’s barely more than a whisper into the dirt.

She is ushered into the manor by the arm, kicking and screaming, and Arthur kicks his horse into a gallop, trying to push down the doubt in his mind that what he's just done was anything but the right thing to do.

* * *

When he returns with Hosea to collect the latter half of his payment, the girl he dropped off that night is barely recognizable. 

_It can’t have been more than two weeks,_ he thinks to himself as he watches her, seated at Mr. Dulvey’s side, the hollows of her cheeks clearly visible, along with a nice black eye and a splint covering two of the fingers on her left hand. Even from across the room, he can see that she’s trembling, and she flinches at every sudden movement by Dalton.

“Christ, Arthur,” Hosea remarks quietly when he glances at her. “Did she put up _that_ much of a fight when you brought her in? You roughed her up pretty good.”

“That wasn’t me,” Arthur argues back in a hushed tone. “Couldn’t have been. She fell off her horse but she didn’t break nothin’ on the way down. ‘Least I don’t think she did, anyway,” he continues. “You ought to know me better than that. I don’t beat on women.”

“Well, she didn’t get that way on her own. You think her husband did that to her?” Hosea asks. 

“I don’t - I don’t know,” Arthur replies, running a hand over the stubble on his chin. “No. Couldn’t have. The way he spoke about her, he’s head over heels for her. I don’t think he’d -”

Arthur cuts himself short as thoughts of her resistance to being rescued resurface in his mind. 

“You don’t think he’d…?” Hosea says, encouraging him to elaborate.

“Shit,” Arthur mumbles.

“What’s wrong?”

“She didn’t wanna come back. She begged me not to bring her.” Arthur remembers the way she’d begged and cried for him not to bring her home. The tears streaming down her face. The impact of Dalton’s hand hitting her cheek.

“Maybe you should’ve listened to her,” Hosea suggests with a frown.

“We needed the money,” Arthur replies defensively.

Hosea makes a thoughtful sound as his eyes wander around the room, taking in the scenery. 

“I can’t imagine she’d want for much in a place like this,” Hosea thinks aloud as he admires the posh furnishings. “If she didn’t want to come back, maybe she was tellin’ the truth.”

“He did say she was ill.”

“He could be lyin’. ‘Sides, he looks at least twice her age. There’s no way this marriage wasn’t arranged.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do about that, then?” Arthur asks. “I can’t exactly tell him I changed my mind.”

“Relax,” Hosea says. “Maybe we don’t need to do anything. Don’t think too much on it. I’ll figure it out.”


	2. Heaven Sent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Torn apart, my spirit's spent  
>  I fell in love on accident  
> Wondered just what Jesus meant  
> [When he said love was Heaven sent](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i-QafAxqMyM)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief warning for suicidal ideation and light self-harm along with general themes of an abusive relationship.  
> Also anytime I think about Hosea, [this is what my brain does.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BsuY9lHxg88)

You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror, the white lace of your dress glowing softly, almost angelically, in the candlelight, further emphasizing your complexion. In the dim light, you can almost convince yourself that the woman you see in the mirror is a ghost. A phantom with no proprietor, free to float away into the night as she pleases. But then you remember the ring around your finger, the offensively shiny thing weighing your hand down like an anchor, and yet, still the envy of every woman in town. 

Unthinking, your hand drifts upward to delicately prod the small cloud of color that remains on your cheekbone and around part of your eye socket. Still tender but fading every day, a haunting of the most recent of Dalton’s tantrums. You wince at the contact, but press your fingers down just a little bit harder, the pain a reminder of just how little you deserve, how foolish you feel for ever thinking you could escape. How deeply your disdain for the man who brought you back runs, how deeply your disdain for all men runs for collectively punishing you for the crime of just existing.

You tend to it with your powder brush, but the stuff only ever covers so much. The people in town pretend not to notice, and you pray that they don’t think too hard about your excuses behind the mysterious injuries that crop up now and again. Early on, one of the stablehands had done that: questioned your husband about the true origin of an injury, and Dalton had killed him for it. You had watched from the balcony as Dalton’s most loyal henchmen buried the boy out back of the garden.

 _He will be food for the soil_ , you think. _The soil will feed the grass, and the grass will feed the animals._ You try to detach yourself from the reality of death; that long, final leaving. Try to distance your thoughts from the possibility of your own leaving, your own permanent absence. Your own white cloud of dust floating away into the night sky, released from this nightmare.

The stable boy had paid the price for your inability to cover up the truth.

And so you learned to lie. And the estate’s employees learned better than to speak of it. If Dalton's cruelty were a whetstone, then it had sharpened your heart to a sharp and brittle point. It was just easier to close it off from the rest of the world. Lock it up behind a heavy door you created in your mind. 

“I’m just clumsy,” you say. But then you go on stage and perform without a single misstep, your body lithe and practiced and very much alive.

Just clumsy.

As if the truth were so simple.

You lift your chin ever so slightly to adjust the buttons on the high collar of the dress, two fingers tracing in a thin line across the fabric that covers your throat.

Underneath the sheer ivory material lives the mark that marrs you as property of Dalton Dulvey, an entrepreneur and the heir to the fortune and most of the land and businesses his father had left to him. 

When you think back to the night he’d given it to you, you can only remember short flashes - an argument over dinner, sprinting for the door, Dalton’s hands around you like a vice, a knife pressed too harshly to your neck. 

He’d paid the town’s doctor extra not to mention it to anyone, and the man had obeyed without so much as a quirk of his eyebrow, even as he sewed stitches into your throat.

Perhaps there were no good men in the world, so long as money could buy their loyalty and turn their true colors muddy. 

Your stomach churns at the memory of the man who’d approached you that night and inevitably brought you back against your will. How intimidatingly handsome you’d thought him when he’d crept out of the woods and approached your camp. How the firelight had illuminated his features as you tried not to notice him watching you. How alluring his deep voice had been. How you’d given him the benefit of the doubt and let him sit by your fire, even offered him a meal.

You tell yourself you should’ve known better.

A shiver of anger ascends your spine, and you pause at the sound of footsteps in the hallway, shortly followed by a pair of soft knocks on the door.

“Come in,” you call automatically, watching the door nudge open in the mirror’s reflection.

A housemaid pops her head in, smiling sweetly.

“Miss,” she says, bowing her head slightly as she approaches. “Mister Dulvey sent for you.”

Your hands grow clammy as the head maid tucks a few of your stray hairs back into place in your updo. The woman, no less than 20 years your senior, narrows her brows with concern when you don't reply.

“There are some men here,” she mentions quietly, and you stare mindlessly at the maid’s reflection. “One of them is that man, Mr. Callahan, who brought you back home. He’s got some other man with him, maybe his father, I’m not sure.”

You don’t respond. You’re too focused on trying to tamper down the nausea lingering at the back of your throat.

“Well,” Miss Collins nods, finishing up with your hair. “I just wanted to let you know ahead of time.” She motions for you to turn around and you do. The maid takes a step back and gives you a once-over, smiling proudly.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, avoiding eye contact as you duck your head under her inspection. This prompts Miss Collins to tilt your chin up gently, frowning and drawing away when you flinch at the contact.

“Sorry, dear,” she says gently. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s alright,” you answer, your eyes finding her briefly before dodging away again.

It’s almost imperceptible, but you can see how quickly Miss Collins’ eyes flit to the bruise on your cheek and then away. 

Your breath catches and you hope that Miss Collins won’t mention the mark, though its existence hangs in the air between you; the elephant in the room you’re not allowed to mention, and when you look at it you feel its weight on your chest.

“You look beautiful,” Miss Collins offers instead, a sad smile creasing her features, and you’re grateful for it.

“Remember to smile,” she insists kindly as she turns you towards the door, and you nod.

It’s for the best to pretend.

You descend the grand staircase slowly, your skin crawling because of how hyper-aware you are of all of the room’s occupants’ eyes now on you. You look up into the faces of the crowd only when you near the last step. It isn't a particularly large gathering, but there are enough guests at the dinner that the house staff is mostly occupied. Your feet touch down on the plush carpet of the last stair and you look for Dalton among the throes of party guests, meandering across the floor with as much practiced grace as you can manage. As you move, you scan the crowd, finding the perimeter of the room, where people are a little less interested in Dalton’s goings-on, or a little too drunk to care. Your eyes settle for just a moment on a trio of men cozied up by the bar, and as you recognize two of them, your stomach drops and you feel a white hot anger simmering inside your heart. 

There stands Arthur Callahan, just like Miss Collins had said, leaning lazily against the counter of the bar and staring at the wall with disinterest as an older gentleman beside him flaps his gums with Dalton about something you can't hear. 

He's cleaned up since the last time you saw him - a decent suit and tie with all the appropriate trimmings. He's even slicked his hair back with pomade. You would almost think he looked dignified, were it not for the fact that he’d stolen your freedom from you for a quick buck.

You straighten up and try not to look at Mr. Callahan in the face as you approach the three of them but you can feel his gaze on you. His eyes flick to you easily, and your stomach flips over as you start to sweat under his undisguised scrutiny. The backs of your ears burn as you try to ignore him.

“Ah, there she is,” the older man you suspect to be Arthur’s father says, announcing your arrival. 

Dalton turns to you, seemingly pleasantly surprised, and his arm coils around the small of your back like a snake. You suppress a grimace as he pulls you in for a quick kiss on the cheek, arousing quiet hums of adoration from the small crowd. When he pulls back, his eyes are trained on yours. His breath is warm on your face and already reeks of whiskey.

“Your punctuality is appreciated, my darling,” Dalton says snarkily.

A forced smile creases your lips and you open your mouth to respond, but you’re cut off by Arthur’s father.

“Come now, Mr. Dulvey,” he muses. “The lady of the house is never late. Everyone else is simply early.”

Dalton chuckles, his attitude honeyed from the drink in his hand.

You’re caught off-guard by the man’s humor, by the willingness to force Dalton to spare you his petty anger.

“Of course,” Dalton agrees. “Johanna, you remember Arthur,” He gestures to the bounty hunter and the ice in his glass clinks with the motion. 

You nod politely in Arthur’s direction and take a slight bow, lifting one side of your dress for effect.

“A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Callahan,” you say. “And who’s this?” 

You study the older man beside Mr.Callahan, finally giving him a fair appraisal: a tall, lean man with light blonde hair and roguish features. He’s also garbed in a decent tailored suit, this one navy blue in color, with a grey satin vest and bowtie affixed to the collar of his white shirt.

“This is my father, Hosea,” Arthur explains.

“Pleased to meet you,” you tell him. 

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine. You have a very lovely home,” Hosea says, his silvery voice a stark contrast to his Arthur’s gravelly drawl. “I bet you’re glad to be back safe.”

“Yes. Of course. I was very lucky that your son found me when he did,” you lie. You glance at Dalton in your periph and find him unconvinced.

“Well, that’s a relief.” Hosea says thoughtfully. “He’s quite the helpful sort.”

“Indeed,” Dalton says dryly as he presses his lips to the glass in his hand for another swig of his drink.

“Dalton here was just telling us about how you met,” Hosea says, nudging the conversation forward. “It all sounds very romantic. That you moved so far across the country to be with him, that’s true loyalty.”

_Yes. Loyalty._

“Yes,” you breathe, making yourself smile. “It’s quite the modern tale of true love.”

True love. 

You could laugh.

What part of being sold to a rich man twice your age by your father so he could pay off his debts was true love?

You hadn’t known true love since the day you were born.

Nevertheless, Hosea seems content with your answer, but when you glance at Dalton, he is staring at you over the rim of the glass he’s raised to his lips, his expression unreadable.

Anxiety thrums inside your ribcage but you push it down.

“Say, are you a gambling man, Mister Dulvey?” Hosea asks, and Dalton chuckles.

“Perhaps,” Dalton answers. “Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering if you were up for a game of cards,” Hosea suggests, his tone bold and suave. He was a smoothtalker if you’d ever seen one.

You wait nervously while Dalton thinks the offer over. 

Losing at cards was both infuriating and habit-forming for him, and it wouldn’t do well for him to lose any more money on top of what he already owed Arthur for your safe return.

Finally, a crooked grin snakes its way across Dalton’s face.

“You’re on,” Dalton says with determination. “But I do hope you’ll do me the courtesy of not cleaning me out of much more than what you’re owed,” he jokes miserly.

“Of course,” Hosea says nonchalantly. “Just a low-stakes game among new friends, right?”

“Why not?” Dalton says, plucking a glass of something alcoholic off the silver tray of a passing house staff member and offering it to the man called Hosea.

Dalton recruits someone from house staff to play dealer, and the two others to set up a table for them to play. In the meantime, you hang off Dalton’s arm like an accessory, and your mind drifts back to the fire in your heart you feel for this despicable game that Dalton plays where you are both his punching bag and his dutiful wife. 

You think, briefly, that you would’ve been better off shooting yourself instead of wasting your time trying to shoot Arthur from horseback.

You mourn the possibilities of a better life had you succeeded in fleeing from him that fateful night while a few rounds of cards pass. 

The men laugh and chatter, but you tune it out, wondering if it’d be possible to die from throwing yourself down the grand staircase.

You don’t realize anyone was talking to you until Dalton clears his throat and nudges your arm.

“Johanna,” he says. “Mr. Callahan asked you a question.”

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly, straightening up a little and offering him an apologetic smile. “I was miles away.”

“That’s alright, dear,” Hosea says, giving you an encouraging look. When he smiles, it is genuine in a way that you didn’t expect. His eyes are kind, and you feel a warmth there when he speaks to you. “No harm, no foul. I was just telling your husband about my appreciation for your work.”

“Oh,” you say, sighing as your brows knit together. “My work?”

“That’s right,” Hosea nods. “I’ve caught your show a number of times, in fact. You’re a gifted dancer. _And_ a gifted vocalist, of course.”

“Th-thank you,” you stammer, genuinely surprised. 

“I tried to tell you, my darling,” Dalton says pridefully. “There are plenty of people who appreciate your work.”

A tic starts in your jaw.

Sure, there _were_ plenty of people who enjoyed your work, but it wasn’t like you’d ever reap any of the rewards.

Dalton had inherited the theater from his father, just like everything else, and he cashed in your wages, along with most of the revenue that the place generated. In a bustling livestock town with nothing better to do, people went to the saloon or they went to the theater. And they usually spread word of the latter, drawing even more visitors to see you perform.

“Did you feel like people didn’t enjoy your work?” Hosea asks. 

You open your mouth to speak but Dalton answers for you.

“Well, the theater business is a cutthroat one. I think my Johanna was just feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“Understandable,” Hosea concedes. “But watching you, it seems like you have a leg up on the other women. Were you classically-trained?”

Again, Dalton tackles the question on your behalf.

You cast him a sidelong glance but he just stares straight ahead at Hosea.

He’s decided you’ve spoken enough.

“Johanna’s father wanted her to have some sort of real skillset, but she’s always been a stubborn thing. So he settled on funding her more artistic interests.”

Hosea nods intently.

You almost fall out of your chair when Arthur speaks next:

“Does she ever answer any of her own questions?”

His husky drawl startles everyone at the table, but primarily you.

You stare at him, your eyes blown wide, but he does not meet your gaze. Instead, he’s busy staring down your husband, his heavy brow narrowed over his steel blue eyes. 

Just as when he brought you back, he doesn’t seem to understand that you and you alone suffer the consequences of his actions; you will pay the price for his insolence.

Dalton’s knuckles whiten around his drink, and it feels like a lifetime passes while you wait for him to respond, but his voice isn’t the first to break the strained silence.

“Arthur!” Hosea barks chastisingly and you flinch when his hand makes sudden contact with the table. “Now, there’s no need to be rude. You know better than to insult a man in his own home. We are his guests.”

Arthur leans back in his seat and crosses his arms while Hosea scolds him.

“I’m terribly sorry for my son’s behavior,” Hosea apologizes earnestly and you see Dalton relax from the corner of your eye. “He hasn’t yet figured out that women are meant to be seen and not heard,” Hosea jokes, presumably hoping to lighten the mood.

It must work, because you watch a smirk crease Dalton’s lips before he lets out a small chuckle. 

“We all make mistakes,” Dalton says. “It was a fair question, after all. I do tend to get carried away when I get to talkin’ about her.”

Dalton’s gaze shifts to you, and you imagine that, from an outsider’s perspective, it is a look of fondness. To you, though, it is only that of a predator closing in on its prey.

“I used to do the same thing, with my foolish boy’s mother,” Hosea laughs, his jab making Arthur roll his eyes. “God rest her soul. Y’know, _she_ was a dancer for some time. I think it’s why I took such a shine to Missus Dulvey’s performances. They make me a little nostalgic.”

“Is that so?” Dalton asks. “I’m glad we could help keep her memory alive.”

“Mr. Dulvey, I wonder if you’d do me the honor of allowing me to relive my favorite pastime,” Hosea inquires. “I’d relish the opportunity to dance with a professional again.” He grins at you. “If it’s alright with you, of course.”

You eye him carefully.

“I don’t see why not,” Dalton muses, raising a glass to the man as he stands. “Go ahead. Just be gentle with her.” 

“Of course,” Hosea nods. “Thank you kindly.” 

He inclines his head to Dalton and then to you.

“My lady.”

You hesitate, seemingly unable to move yourself from your seat as you wonder what he’s trying to accomplish with this.

“Please don’t keep our guest waiting, darling,” Dalton threatens you politely without looking up from his cards.

You plant your fingers into the crook of Hosea’s elbow as he leads you to the open floor where a few other pairs of partygoers sway to the music. Hosea turns to you and offers you his hand just as the small band of musicians in the corner strike up a waltz. You take it delicately, and when his other hand goes to your waist you become acutely aware of how humane his touch is. The two of you fall into rhythm with ease as he leads your steps, and you’re pleasantly surprised at how good his form is.

Your gaze wanders anywhere but to his eyes. You feel a little embarrassed somehow, as if such a gentle touch should be reserved for someone far more deserving than you.

Instead, you focus on the small white flower he has pinned onto his lapel.

“All respect, Miss, but your husband is a vile man,” Hosea admits nonchalantly, his words masked by the din of the party around you.

“I beg your pardon?” You ask, caught completely off-guard. You remember that Dalton is most likely watching, and you wipe the bewilderment from your features just before you are turned back towards the card table.

He gives you another one of his genuine smiles as he twirls you underneath his arm.

“I hope you’ll excuse my candor. That man is at least twice your age. How’d you _really_ end up here?” He asks.

“You already know,” you answer shyly.

Hosea gives his head a gentle shake.

“No,” he says patiently. “I want to know the _real_ story. I want to hear your side of it.”

Your side? There wasn’t a waltz in the world long enough for you to give your side of the story.

“So, I’ll ask you again,” he says kindly. “How’d you end up here?”

What a fine question. How _had_ you ended up here?

It had all started when you’d supposedly killed your mother by having the nerve to be born.

Beyond that, you’d been a young girl with a ‘wild streak’ - simply put, an appreciation for living and breathing that had been deemed unacceptable by society and by your father - and he’d done everything he could to break you like an ornery stallion, make you palatable to the kinds of men who would pay your father dearly for you to be their wife. Men like Dalton. You’d been branded and bridled and burdened with all the trappings of how a woman of status should behave, all so that you could someday bear the weight of men who wanted you to carry their legacies. 

It was always the same. You could see the ideas that grew into men’s minds when they looked at you.

But this man, this stranger in your home, was different.

The mischief that played in his eyes was different, and it kept catching in your mind like fine lace dragged across a splintered wood floor.

But you’d been wrong before. You’d been wrong about his own damn son.

And so, you spare him the sob story of how you’d ended up here, and say instead:

“Well, Mr. Callahan, you’ve got a nerve. Coming into a man’s home and insulting him in the sole company of his wife. The story he told you is the same one I could tell you now. We married four years ago after he and my father met at the auction. My father agreed to let him have my hand in marriage when I was just seventeen.”

Hosea smiles patiently, which serves only to make you more suspicious.

“So, in other words, it weren’t just cattle being auctioned off. Your father used you as collateral.”

“I -” you stammer, trying to think of a way out of this line of reasoning. “Dalton didn’t purchase me, if that’s what you’re implying.” 

But hadn’t he?

Hosea doesn’t reply, and the pause he gives you leaves room for you to doubt.

“My father needed the money,” you say defensively. “The ranch was in dire straits.”

He still doesn’t give you anything.

“I don’t see why it matters to you, anyway,” you huff finally, making yourself shut up before you dig yourself any deeper. 

He couldn’t really care. 

The only reason a man would ever cozy up to you was for his own gain.

“It matters to me a great deal, in fact,” Hosea says, and you feel a pang of guilt when he fixes you once more with that warm gaze. “I wasn’t lying when I said I was a fan. And I wasn’t lying when I said you were a good actress. But, Miss Dulvey, the reason I know chicanery when I see it is because I am also a person who frequently attempts to fool others. Only, when _I_ fool others for money, the stakes somehow aren’t nearly as high.” He laughs as he twirls you again. “And I’m a wanted man.”

“I thought you were bounty hunters.”

“We are, occasionally. But mostly we’re a couple of crooks.”

You’re taken aback by his honesty. 

“Why are you telling me this?” You ask flatly.

“Because I think it’s a shame that a talented young woman like yourself is being subjected to whatever it is that your husband did to make you feel like you had no choice but to run away from all this,” he gestures vaguely to the manor; the chandeliers above you, the serving staff, the lavish furnishings. “And even if he weren’t a rich man, I would still think it’s a shame to see such a bright light snuffed out so harshly.”

You can do little else but blink away the tears that start to swell in your eyes.

“Oh, none of that now, my dear,” he says. “Too many wandering eyes in this room.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to make yourself appear plain-faced again.

“Why?” Is all you can say, the crack in your voice betraying you.

“I know it sounds a little shallow, coming from the supposed father of the man who brought you back here. But I used to frequent your theater. It’s good entertainment. And a good place to scout for talent. But one day, _your_ show was no longer being performed. So I started askin’ around about you. Followed the trail all the way to this very estate and asked your staff for answers. Figured they’d be the host of the really honest information. And what do you know, they told me the strangest thing. Said you weren’t kidnapped, but that you’d run away of your own volition, and that Dalton was meaner than a basket of rattlesnakes. That he was an insult to rattlesnakes.

“And I thought to myself, good for her. She got away. And then my idiot boy who ain’t my real, blood son comes home ravin’ about some big reward he got for returnin’ a poor missing girl to her husband, and I think to myself, ‘Surely it’s just a coincidence.’ But if fate is anythin’, it’s cruel, and the next time I went back to your theater, who else do I see but that talented young woman with a great big shiner that even grease paint can’t hide.”

Your body seems to grow frail as you listen to him speak and you suspect that were it not for his hands holding you up, you’d surely collapse. 

You understand each word individually but all put together the meaning falls apart - it is a language you can’t decipher; you are simply unprepared for such unbridled kindness, if that’s even what it is. You don’t know which would be harder to cope with: that this man you’ve never met could treat you with so much objective empathy, or that he could do it and lie. At least you’d expect the lie.

“Way I see it,” he continues, slinging you gently outward to the end of the full reach of his arm before pulling you back in. “This is our mistake to fix.”

“I don’t see how you could fix it now,” you admit, shaking your head thoughtfully. “Dalton won’t let me out of his sight. He doesn’t let me go anywhere without a guard.”

“What if his guards are preoccupied with something more important?” He asks.

“Like what?” You inquire.

“Like a fire in the stable. Something of the like.”

You chew on that for a moment.

“I suppose it could work, but…” 

“But?”

You stop short. Why get your hopes up for something that would never pan out?

“Why would you do that for me? You don’t even know me.”

“Why not?” He shrugs. “The real question is, if it meant you could live free once more, would you make a deal with a wanted man - an outlaw - just like that? What if we turn out to be more dangerous than your husband?”

“There’s no one more dangerous than my husband,” you answer grimly.

“Fair enough,” Hosea says. “How do you know we won’t just take the money and run? Take you with us, do whatever we wanted with you,” Hosea points out.

“I don’t,” you say. “I’ve endured those very things from Dalton enough. There’s little you could do to me he hasn’t already done himself. And even if you kill me,” you say pointedly. “I’d rather die than spend the rest of my days here.”

The note of finality in your voice renders the both of you speechless, the gravity of your truth grounding you. Your quiet resignation softens his features.

“Miss Dulvey, do you have any skills aside from your acting?” He asks then, the change in subject catching you unprepared. 

“I’m… afraid I don’t follow,” you answer.

“I mean, what can you do for us once the money runs out? Arthur and me, we’re thieves. Hucksters. Runnin’ with a whole gang of folks just like us. The Van Der Linde gang. As in _Dutch_ Van Der Linde. We’ve got men and other women with us, all hungry and in need of life’s basic necessities. Say you want or need to stay with us for your own safety. How would you contribute to the gang after that? Sure, you can act, but would you commit to con artistry? Coming with us means doing your part, else you’re just another mouth to feed.”

“Well, I…” You start. “I can help with the chores. I grew up on a ranch, I know about horses. I could… um,” you trail off, unsure of yourself. “I could offer more… carnal services, if required.”

“Heavens, no,” Hosea chuckles suddenly. “Our girls don’t do anything like that unless they want to. We’re bad men, but we’re not animals. ”

“I don’t think you’d be goin’ to so much trouble to give me an out like this if you were a bad man,” you argue.

“I suppose it depends on how you look at it,” he offers. “Good, bad, I’m the former to some and the latter to others. But the way _I_ see it, this is my wrong to right.”

The music swells one last time, and you try to maintain your composure as your mind races with anticipation. Hosea dips you with a flourish before standing you back upright and bowing to you.

“There’s a clearing about a mile out, just on the other side of the woods to the east. If you can make it that far, we can come get you and bring you back to our camp.”

“Okay,” you say, trying to force yourself to breathe.

“Perfect,” Hosea smiles. “Don’t be late.”


	3. Little Pistol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And now I want brimstone in my garden  
>  I want roses set on fire  
> And I, well I want what's best for me  
> And I, I think I know just what that means  
> [Just what that means](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2LE_cKyjvw)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for a brief scene of domestic violence and mental abuse.

You’re escorted back to the card table, and as if on cue, someone rings a dinner bell.

“Just in time,” Dalton says, rising up from his seat. “What did you think, Hosea?”

“Oh, it was everything I hoped for!” Hosea answers emphatically. “Your wife is a treasure. Your theater business will be successful for years to come.”

“Well, you are the guest of honor,” Dalton says to Arthur. “Shall we?”

The whole of the party is moved to the banquet hall, and as everyone sits down for their meal, Dalton waits by his chair. He raises a glass and gives a brief toast.

“To Arthur Callahan,” he says, and all the other guests lift their glasses. “For bringing my beloved wife home to me.”

You lift your glass as well, and your hand wobbles just slightly. Be it from nerves or your broken hand, you can’t tell. You wince at the dull throbbing in your broken fingers and move the glass to your other hand before you take your drink. The whole room gives a humble cheer in Arthur’s honor, including Hosea, and Arthur looks visibly uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat.

If he didn’t like all this pomp and circumstance, he could have easily avoided it by minding his business and leaving you be.

You exhale slowly, trying to move past that for now. Hosea said he would fix this.

You struggle to eat with your unbroken hand, and don’t find the concept of eating very appetizing anyway, so you just end up staring into your food with an empty expression. Maybe if your plan fails tonight you could starve yourself to death, in time, you think.

"Johanna, darling," Dalton says, and you look up at him. "You seem a little tired. Why don't you head off to bed for the night."

"Not yet," you say quietly. 

Dalton stops in his tracks. 

"What was that?" He asks. 

"I said," you utter, gathering a breath and fixing him with a square look. "I'm not ready to retire for the evening yet. I'd like to stay up a little longer."

He is stunned. You watch his brows quirk up and down as he grins unevenly, working his jaw as he processes your outright insubordination. 

You stare at him plainly, your hands lying neatly in your lap. The both of you know he's not above attacking you in front of his men and the house staff, but what about his party guests? It's a gamble, but you decide to take it. If he does, you win; sure, you come out of it with some battering and bruising, but what would happen should someone intervene? See him for the monster he really is? You brace yourself for his retaliation when he lifts a hand towards your face, but the pain you expect doesn't come. 

Instead, he chuckles and caresses your cheek with a brief touch. 

"Of course, my love. Whatever you think is best."

Because if Dalton is anything, he is determined. 

Sure, he'll play along, he'll play your little game so long as he gets to play it by his rules. And he intends to beat you at it. 

Your heart sinks but you try not to let it show. 

Dinner lasts for about an hour before Dalton migrates the gathering to the sitting room, and as the night stretches on your worry starts to overtake you. Conversation buzzes around you as you sit beside your husband, but somehow you are not there to hear any of it - the words are a blur as you consider every way your plan with Hosea might go wrong. It's as if you were watching the scene from the balcony of a theater rather than occupying a seat in the room, and you wonder, if the woman who was supposed to be you glanced out into where the stage lights would be, would there be an audience beyond them? A crowd of sordid souls whose only purpose was to laugh at your misfortune? No wonder you were such an inspired performer. You were accustomed to little else than being a puppet on a string.

You smile and recite polite goodbyes to people when they start to disperse for the night, but it is automatic. 

Someone puts their hand on your arm, and you are pulled from your thoughts like a fish out of water. 

You look up into the face of your husband.

“Johanna, darling, it’s just about time to turn in. I’m just goin’ to show Arthur here to my office so I can retrieve the rest of his payment.”

You glance at Hosea over Dalton’s shoulder, standing patiently in the doorway.

Maybe it would be better to get a headstart.

“Yes, my love,” you concede, moving to leave the room. “A pleasure to meet you,” you bow your head to Hosea. “Thank you for the dance.” You turn to Arthur then. “And thank you again for bringing me home.”

“‘Course,” Arthur says, nodding at you.

“Have a lovely evening, Miss Dulvey,” Hosea adds.

“I’ll be up shortly,” Dalton tells you with a firm smile. He’s not happy with you. But he’s so liquored up that he is swaying slightly on his feet.

You just grin back, making yourself keep a regular pace as you quit the room.

A few steps up the staircase you look back to find his head henchman, Ivan, stalking up behind you.

“Keep goin’,” he says gruffly, a venomous command that makes you flinch, but you obey.

You reach your bedroom door and take a tentative step inside, and once you’re through the threshold, Ivan pushes the door closed. You hear his ring of keys jingle, and a second later the door lock clicks.

A tidal wave of panic washes over you and you whirl around, taking a heavy breath and crossing the room to throw open the doors of your armoire. You rifle through its contents, looking for clothing that’s a little more travel-worthy. As you work your trembling fingers to unlace your corset, you imagine Dalton chattering on about something asinine to Arthur as he opens his safe. The room begins to feel smaller and smaller and your stomach churns in protest as your breaths become shallow.

_ I’m going to suffocate _ , you think, finally pulling enough of the threads loose so that you can trade out the floor-length gown for a pair of grey pinstripe riding pants and a button-up cream-colored blouse. As you tug on your boots, you hear distant footfalls on the stairs heading in your direction. You move away from the door just in time for Ivan to unlock the thing. It swings open to reveal a very drunk and very angry Dalton Dulvey.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He slurs as he stomps across the floor to meet you. 

You wince as his hand flies up toward your face, but instead of hitting you he grabs a fistful of your hair and forces you to look him in the eye. 

“You backtalk me in front of our guests, and expect me to be alright with it?” He growls, his breath hot on your face. “You disrespectful whore!” He throws you to the floor and you whimper in fear when you land against the leg of your vanity stool, knocking it askew.

“Where are you goin’?” He asks through bared teeth, gesturing vaguely to your outfit. “Huh?” 

You retreat away from him and he pursues you, reaching for the stool and flipping it over as he tosses it out of his way.

“Did you enjoy your dance?” He asks callously. “You must think I was born yesterday!” He bellows, and you shrink away from him instinctively. “I saw the way you were lookin’ at him! What did the two of you talk about, huh?”

“Nothing!” You shriek as he tosses a bottle of your perfume at you. It shatters on impact with the floor, filling the room with the scent of clover and wildflowers. A juxtaposition of things that threatens to make you sick.

“Don’t you lie to me!” He rages, grabbing your forearm and wrenching you upwards. “What did he say to you that made you think you could talk to me like that?” He throws you face-first onto the edge of the bed and presses his full body against you. You squirm beneath him, wrestling with the fingers he’s got tangled in your hair. 

Someone somewhere begins shouting, and it prompts Ivan to interrupt Dalton.

“Boss!” He yells, and Dalton barely relents before Ivan repeats himself. “Boss! The stable’s on fire!”

“What?” Dalton asks, finally letting up. 

“The stable, it’s burnin’ up!” Ivan calls.

Dalton stands up to his full height and straightens his suit as he leaves you slumped against the bed. You turn your head against the duvet and spy the oil lantern on your night table.

“Of all things,” Dalton growls. “Get down there!”

Ivan just nods and Dalton turns back to you.

“This ain’t over -”

You put your full weight into swinging the oil lantern at him, and it collides with half of his face, bursting into flames and sending shards of glass and cinders flying in all directions. Dalton cries out as he stumbles sideways and smashes into your vanity. The mirror shatters and he feels around for a shard of glass as he grunts and groans and clutches at his face. When he finds one he takes hold of it and swipes at you rapidly. You dodge out of the way, ending up beside the fireplace. You take the fire poker from its stand, wrenching several logs out of the hearth. They tumble onto the rug, leaving a trail of flames in their wake. 

“Johanna!” Dalton roars. 

You hold the fire poker steady, stepping expertly around the logs to avoid the flames but never taking your eyes off of him.

“Don’t you dare! You ain’t gonna make it out there! Not without me! Not without my money!”

Dalton tries to stay upright, tries to give chase, but he can’t see you; blood leaks into his eyes from the gashes on his face and you smell burnt flesh.

To your horror, he starts to laugh. 

“You’re gonna end up like the whore I always knew you were!” He tells you. “Makin’ a living by lyin’ on your back! You’re nothing without me!”

It’s then that Ivan reappears in the doorway to inspect the commotion, and his eyes blow wide when he takes in the whole scene.

“You  _ bitch! _ ” He growls before charging towards you. 

You swat the fire poker at him, and though it doesn’t connect the way you’d hoped, it does knock him off-balance, and he rolls his ankle when his foot lands on a log.

On his way down, Ivan tries to grab you, but thanks to your years of dancing, you maneuver out of his reach expertly, hopping over him and past Dalton. 

You make a run for the door and find the keys still in the lock, and as one last measure of self-preservation, you close and lock it behind you. You can hear Dalton yelling from inside but his words are incoherent. 

Your heart hammers inside your chest as you dash down the hall and toward the main stairs. You clench your jaw to stop your teeth chattering as you fly down the steps.

You worry that you’ll be snatched up by a lasso as you pass through the front door, but it never happens. Instead, you leap from the top step and only stop when you land to look around for a horse.

In the confusion of the fire, both Dalton’s goons and the house staff pay you little mind and you carefully seize the reins of an agitated horse left hitched to the post by the porch. You shush it gently, trying to calm it down before you plant your foot in the stirrup and climb onto its back.

The horse neighs and snorts as it moves forward and starts to pick up speed. You turn it towards the woods. 

Once you’re clear of the fields, you give the horse a nudge in the ribs and you clutch the reins like a lifeline as you near the fence at the outer perimeter. 

The horse clears it with ease, sailing over it and landing with a thud, not losing any speed as it carries you into the treeline.

You keep your head low and pull on the reins gently to slow the horse as it makes its way through the dense foliage. It gives its head a shake as it slows to a walk and you let him do the work of navigating the woods in the dark, trusting his eyes over yours.

The commotion of the stable fire starts to fade behind you, and eventually you see a break in the trees up ahead, their silhouettes starting to disentangle. You pull the horse to a stop at the edge of the woods, surveying the meadow for any sign of activity and find none. You dismount and tug the reins, prompting the horse to follow beside you as you step into the clearing. 

Surely this was the clearing Hosea had mentioned. You wait for several minutes before you decide to take a seat on a large fallen tree. Your fingers thrum anxiously at your sides and you stand up again, approaching the horse who is now grazing lazily in the meadow.

You check the contents of its saddlebags and find a waterskin, a money clip with 37dollars in it, and a worn leather holster, inside which rests a small revolver. 

You turn the thing over in your hands apprehensively, shivering against a breeze that rolls through, caressing the overgrown blades of grass around you.

You find yourself wishing you’d grabbed a jacket.

With time to think, your mind starts to race.

If Hosea didn’t show up to get you, how long was it safe to wait before taking off on your own? You could use the money in the saddlebag to afford a train ride, but where would you even go?

You imagine riding up the long driveway to your family’s ranch in Virginia, flanked on either side by pastures of livestock. Your older brother would be happy to see you, maybe, but your father?

You sigh.

He’d turn you back into Dalton for his own payout of reward money.

You watch the treeline for a while, chewing your bottom lip. Would Hosea show after all? It didn’t really make sense for him to lie, unless he intended on bringing you in for a second reward, but the odds of that were probably low. You hope.

You groan quietly, letting your face fall into your hands as you sink to the ground, leaning your back against the tree. When you look up again, you let your fingertips drag across your cheeks. The stars overhead shine, and so you try instead to focus on them, drawing imaginary lines between the tiny shimmering flares that blanket the sky above you.


	4. Northern Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Don't turn around  
>  Feel it nipping at the backs of your heels  
> Feel it calling like a northern wind, whispering,  
> ["Who you are isn't what you've been"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHP5UbHy-AI)_

An hour passes.

Then two.

_ I’m such a fool. Why did I ever think I could get away with this? _

You tear angrily at the grass beneath you, ripping it out of the ground and into little pieces with your fingers. You clench your jaw shut in a futile attempt to stop the tears threatening to slip down your cheeks as Dalton’s voice echoes in the back of your mind, creeping up the back of your neck.

_ No matter where you go I’ll find you. _

_ You ain’t gonna make it out there. _

_ Not without me. _

_ You’ll end up like the whore I always knew you were. _

Perhaps he was right. You knew nothing of the outside world. It would chew you up and spit you out in a heartbeat, and at the end of the day, was that worth your freedom? Was it worth not having to suffer under Dalton’s reign of terror? At least you were insulated from the unruly nature of the world, free to get beaten or molested in safety.

No.

You shake your head, trying to shake your mind free of the thought. 

This was the right choice. Wasn’t it?

You wipe at your face with your sleeve, your breath filtering in and out of your lungs unevenly as you endure the pain you’ve since realized is throbbing across your scalp. When he’d grabbed your hair, Dalton had pushed several hairpins deep into your skin and tore even more out, ripping out strands of your hair with them. You comb your fingers through the ends of your hair, slowly working your way up and trying as best you can to untangle it all before you fix it into a simple braid down your back.

You see the image of Dalton’s glass-splintered, lamp-burned face in your mind and shudder. It’s a surprise he didn’t immediately catch fire all over, what with how drunk he was.

What would happen now if he found you again? You likely wouldn’t live long enough to see the light of another day; he’d lock you in the basement and starve you to death. Feed you to the pigs, one piece at a time. Violate or mutilate you in some new, horrible way he’d invent just for you.

The sound of movement in the woods makes you jump, and you swivel your head around rapidly as you search for the source. You clutch the revolver in your hand, feeling its weight. Your horse continues to graze in the meadow beside you, and you shift your legs underneath yourself, preparing to run if need be.

A dim light flickers within the arms of the pine trees ahead of you, and you feel like there are a hundred moths beating their wings against your ribcage.

You watch, mesmerized by the soft amber light as it moves leisurely and steadily closer, accompanied by the sound of hooves plodding through the brush. You take a deep breath and steady the revolver in your hands as the horse steps into the clearing. You can see now the light belongs to a lantern held by a figure on horseback. They lift it up and shine it in your direction and you squint to shield your eyes from the glow.

“Hosea?” You call out and the rider lowers their lantern.

“Not exactly,” they answer with a gravelly drawl.

You narrow your brows and grit your teeth as you realize who the voice belongs to.

“You?” You hiss, drawing the gun in a swift movement and aiming it right for him. Your hands tremble as you pull the hammer back on the revolver, your entire body growing hot with terror and fury. Your eyes adjust and you can just make out his face in the lantern light.

“Whoa,” Arthur says. “Relax, Miss Dulvey, I ain’t here to hurt’cha.”

“Liar,” you reply. “Why -” You stammer, feeling foolish as your animosity makes it hard to form words correctly. “Why are you here? Where’s Hosea?” You demand.

“Hosea had to make sure we weren’t followed leavin’ after we set that fire. Had to go back to camp and get some things settled for you to join us. He sent me in his stead. Now, would you mind lowerin’ the gun, please?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I mind,” you answer sharply. “Why should I believe you, after what happened the last time I ran into you in the middle of the woods?”

“Well, Miss,” he chuckles dryly. “I don’t reckon you should. You got every right to be as upset as y’are. I don’t believe I would trust me neither.”

“You know, he shot that horse,” you say coldly. “Right after you left. Shot in right in front of me, there in the yard. Bet he told you it was his, but it was  _ mine. _ ”

“Miss, I am sorry -”

“You’re  _ sorry _ ?” You say skeptically, and the dry laugh that follows sounds foreign to you as it erupts from your chest. “I got the beatin’ of my life that night!” You confess, your voice coming out bitter and broken. “The things he did to me,” you whisper, your throat becoming thick. “You could’ve just let me be.”

“I know, and like I said, I’m sorry,” he explains. “You gotta think about the way it looked from my point of view. I thought you were a spoiled brat who’d caught a wild hair and decided to run off, when you had everything you could have ever wanted handed to you on a silver platter.”

“Don’t act like you did it for me. You did it for the money! Why didn’t you just  _ listen _ to me!” You sputter, stamping forward and jabbing the gun toward him. “You expect me to trust you again? You took a battered woman back to her violent husband for a quick buck!” 

“Ma’am, I don’t blame you for wantin’ to shoot me. ‘S how people usually react. But you made a deal with Hosea, and I don’t intend to go back on that.”

“I don’t feel safe goin’ with you!” You say. “Didn’t he think about that?”

“Yes, ma’am, he did,” Arthur answers impatiently. “And I’m real sorry he didn’t come to get you himself, but this is the way it is, whether you like it or not. You can come with me or you can go off on your own again, it don’t make no difference to me. But we both know what kinda man your husband is. He  _ will _ send people lookin’ for you again -”

“He’ll send people like you again,” you interrupt him. “People who -” you stammer, trying to come up with an insult. “Who break other people’s fingers for a debt! People who cozy up to you so you let your guard down, and then strike when you’re most vulnerable.”

“Missus Dulvey,” Arthur sighs in irritation. “You won’t make it on your own next time. If you come with me, you got a whole group of people watchin’ your back.”

Before you can argue with him, you’re cut off by the distant sound of hoofbeats, barking dogs, and shouting men. You tense up and curse under your breath. So the hunt begins.

“What’s it gonna be?” Arthur asks impatiently.

You answer him by lifting yourself up into your saddle and steering your horse towards his own.

“C’mon,” he says, tugging at his horse’s reins and turning her around. “We gotta get a move on. Keep up.”

He clucks his tongue at his mare and gives her ribs a gentle nudge with the heels of his boots. You do the same to your own mount, urging the horse to follow, and the two of you are carried into the safety of the woods.

You ride in silence as Arthur leads you through the trees and over trails until finally you reach a main stretch of road and he stops his horse short.

“Slow up now,” he says quietly, and you aren’t sure if he was speaking to you or his mount, but you stop your horse just beside his anyway.

He pulls a pair of binoculars from the brown leather satchel strapped over his shoulder and surveys the road ahead.

“What’s the matter? Why are we stopping?” You ask him.

“See for yourself,” he suggests, offering you the binoculars.

You take them hesitantly, and as you do your fingers brush against his ever so.

Through the lenses you can see a dozen riders with hunting dogs in tow about a mile up the road.

You exhale a long breath as you hand the binoculars back to him and he tucks them back into his satchel.

“We need to stay off the main roads,” he concludes, his voice a low rumble. “C’mon.”

He leads you over the main road and into the trees on the other side.

After a while, you come to a river, and as you steer your horse towards it, you give it a pat on the neck for encouragement. Water splashes up with every high step your horse takes, just enough to leave droplets behind on your boots. Your horse snorts with effort as he climbs up the riverbank behind Arthur’s mare, and you give him quiet words of praise.

The countryside is alive around you, even in the dead of night; small animals scurry through the brush, stirred up by the beat of your horse’s hooves; insects sing, their droning melody a calming backdrop to your journey. You watch the moon through the interrupted bits of foliage above you, its shape that of a fingernail.

Eventually, the terrain evens out, and Arthur leads you down a thin trail already worn in the dirt. You catch the scent of fire and stew, and spy a lantern on the ground beside the trail up ahead.

“Comin’ in,” Arthur calls, halfway between a shout and his regular speaking voice. “Got company with me.”

“Mister Morgan!” A thin voice answers, deep but not as gruff as Arthur’s. Its owner retrieves the lantern from the ground and holds it up, and you catch sight of the person holding it. He looks like a man of the cloth, but somewhat disheveled, with pale skin and red hair that sticks out from his head as if he’d been struck by lightning minutes ago. A fiery red mustache hangs over his mouth and curves upward unevenly at both ends.

“Reverend Swanson,” Arthur tips his hat to the gentleman.

“Is this our new guest?” Swanson asks, gesturing to you with a spirited smile. “Welcome, ma’am!”

“Thank you,” you nod politely to him as you pass him. 

You follow Arthur the rest of the way into what you assume is his group’s camp, taking in the image of a cozy, communal outdoor living space. Simple tents litter the ground in groups of two or three, and there are large wagons parked on the outer perimeter, with a few smaller ones parked in different spots in the interior. Attached to one appears to be a butcher’s counter with all manner of provisions and animal skins and other various trophies. Several horses graze in a makeshift pasture off to the side, and a handful of others are tied off to hitching posts at the entrance. 

Arthur pulls his horse to an unoccupied post and dismounts, tethering the reins to the wood and giving his mare a pat on the neck before carding his fingers through her mane. You follow his lead, dismounting and hitching your horse beside his own. You glance around nervously, feeling out of place and thankful for the lack of light. You can see that many of the camp’s residents have gone to bed for the night, while a scarce few sit gathered around the main campfire, and while you can’t exactly make out the words of their conversation, it seems that, for the moment at least, you’ve gone unnoticed. 

You catch Arthur watching you, waiting for you, and feel the backs of your ears burn.

He nudges his head towards a large tent on the far side of camp and mumbles, “‘Mon. Let’s go see Hosea, introduce you to Dutch.”

You follow him toward the large tent, and out front of it sit Hosea and another man, presumably Dutch, chatting about something. 

“Well,” Hosea smiles, standing from his seat. “Glad to see you made it in one piece. We were just talking about you.”

“We had to take the long way ‘round. He’s got search parties all over the main roads,” Arthur explains, crossing his arms. 

“And you weren’t followed?” Dutch asks, eyeing Arthur from under the brim of his black hat. 

“Don’t think so,” Arthur shakes his head. 

“Well, welcome to our neck of the woods, Missus Dulvey,” Hosea says, gesturing to the camp around you. 

“Hawkins,” you say shyly. 

Hosea quirks a brow up at you. “What was that?”

“Hawkins is my maiden name,” you tell him, speaking up a little. “I don’t want to use his name anymore. If that’s alright.”

“Of course, dear,” Hosea chuckles. “Missus  _ Hawkins _ ,” he corrects himself, earning himself a small smile from you.

“Tch,” Arthur snorts, hooking his thumbs onto his belt buckle. “She wasn’t this polite when I went to pick her up.”

You scowl at him.

“Now, Arthur, she has every reason to be mad at you,” Hosea scolds him and Arthur scrubs a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come myself,” Hosea tells you. “But thank you for trustin’ this fool on my behalf.”

“It’s alright,” you say. “Are you Mr. Van Der Linde?” You ask, and the man in the black hat grins at you.

“The very same,” he answers, rising from his seat and reaching out to shake your hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Hawkins.”

You offer him your hand, but instead of shaking it, Dutch presses a light kiss to your knuckles, and you look at the ground as his mustache tickles your skin. 

He releases your hand and you aren’t quite sure what to do with it, fidgeting awkwardly before finally reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear. 

“Your camp seems very cozy,” you admit and a laugh grumbles up from within Dutch’s chest.

“Cozy,” he repeats the word, exchanging a glance with Hosea. “Well, I’m sure it’s a stark contrast to what you’re used to.”

“Oh!” You blurt out nervously. “I didn’t mean-”

“Relax,” Dutch says, reaching a hand towards you in effort to calm you. “I know.”

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“It ain’t much, but it’s home,” Dutch says. 

You meet his eyes, wondering what it must be like to feel like somewhere, anywhere, is your home. 

You haven’t felt at home since you were a child. Not in all the world, not in your father’s home or in Dalton’s, not even in your own body. Maybe this was your chance.

“Thank you, all of you,” you say suddenly. “For all this.”

All three of them watch you, and your words fail you. Usually all the men in a room ignore anything you have to say unless you’re singing it.

“What I mean is,” you clarify. “You didn’t have to stick your neck out for me like you did, but I’m grateful for it. So, thank you. I’ll do my part,” you promise. “I’ll help keep things clean, muck the horses, whatever it is. I won’t be a burden.” You clasp your hands together in front of you and press your lips together into a thin line.

“You’re welcome, my dear,” Hosea says. “We’ve time enough to think about your contributions. For tonight, why don’t you get settled in. I’m sure you’ve had a rough evening.”

You nod. Rough was an understatement. Now that all the adrenaline that got you to this point has faded, your bones feel heavy as lead. 

“Arthur, why don’t you show her around?” Dutch suggests and you can see from his body language that Arthur isn’t exactly thrilled about it, but he uncrosses his arms and obeys nonetheless. 

“Sure.”

“There’s stew on the fire,” Hosea adds. “Help yourself. And Arthur, see if one of the girls can make room in their tent for her.”

You walk beside Arthur as he guides you to the main campfire, but slow your pace once you’re out of earshot of Dutch and Hosea. 

“Arthur,” you say, and it sounds like a question. 

He comes to a stop and turns to you reluctantly.

Something about using his first name feels wrong, overly familiar, especially after your argument in the woods. 

“Mr. Callahan.”

“Morgan,” he corrects you. 

“Mr. Morgan,” you say. You realize then that he’s almost a foot taller than you, and the weight of his full attention puts your chest alight. A quick knock at a door long shut inside your heart.

“What is it?” He asks flatly.

You clear your throat.

“I just wanted to apologize,” you admit, reaching one hand to hold the opposite arm.

He raises an eyebrow at you and shifts his weight. 

“For the gun.” You feel ridiculous. And tired. And low. “And for what I said about, well… about the kind of man you are.”

An uneven, bitter smirk creases his lips.

“I’m afraid you hit the nail on the head about the kinda man I am,” he says dryly. “If it were up to me, I’d’ve left you there.”

You purse your lips.

Why do men have to be so damn  _ difficult _ ?

“You can’t mean that,” you say quietly.

“Oh, I do,” he grumbles back. 

You don’t know what to say. Wasn’t he the one in the wrong? You’d hoped to find some common ground with him, but he seems to be mad at you for, what, exactly?

“Mr. Morgan, you said I had every reason to be cross with you, but I’m not clear on what exactly I did to make  _ you _ so angry with  _ me _ ,” you make yourself say, despite the unease prickling at the back of your mind.

He pauses for a moment, giving you an irritated, sweeping look from head to toe that makes your palms feel sweaty.

“Well, Miss Hawkins, I guess I just don’t like bein’  _ judged _ by the likes of folk like yourself,” he says, his brows narrowed. 

You shrink backward as he takes a small step toward you.

“Folk like me?” You inquire.

“That’s right,” he nods. “High-society women who’ve never had to work a day in their lives to get by, who’ve never lived rough or had to kill nobody to survive. Who’ve never had to go without. Folk like that.”

You stare at the ground, hugging yourself tightly.

“A golden cage is still a cage,” you croak out.

His expression softens and he backs off a bit.

“Just don’t try an’ shoot me again, we’ll get along just fine,'' he tells you, his tone less hostile this time. 

As the two of you near the campfire, several people seated on log benches turn and smile up at Arthur, greeting him before they turn their gaze to you.

“Who’s this, Arthur?” A pleasant, heavy-set woman with a button nose and rosy cheeks asks. Golden ringlets hang delicately around her face and when she smiles at you, it’s genuine and easy.

“Everybody, Johanna,” Arthur motions toward you, then toward the group. “Johanna, everybody. She’s gonna be stayin’ with us for a while. Karen, Tilly, you find her a place to sleep in your tent.

“Alright,” Karen agrees. To her left sits a young black woman with bright eyes and a lovely smile.

“Hoo! Ain’t she a looker! You can stay as long as you like, Miss.” A surly man with a receding hairline and poor hygiene raises his mostly-drained beer bottle into the air with a woozy hand, a slight slur to his speech.

“Knock it off, old man,” Arthur says impatiently, pulling a fresh bottle from a crate on a table to the left of the site. “Don’t pay Uncle no mind,” he tells you.

“Come, sit down, honey!” Karen says cheerily as she pats the spot to her right. “We don’t bite.”

You look at Arthur, as if you might require his permission for some reason, and he exchanges an awkward glance with you before you make your way to the opposite side of the fire to sit beside Karen.

“You hungry?” Karen asks, already spooning the contents of the stew into a bowl for you. 

“Oh,” you breathe. “Sure.”

Karen hands you the bowl along with a crudely worn spoon, and the warmth of the bowl spreads from your hands to the rest of your tired frame, relaxing you a little. The group continues talking while you scoop up a portion of steaming vegetables and chunks of meat, blowing on it gently before taking a bite. 

“What do you think?” Karen asks with a wry grin and you try to hide how foreign the texture of the meat feels to your palate by smiling.

“It’s good,” you answer with a nod after swallowing. “Interesting texture.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s possum,” Tilly explains and you blink at her stupidly, your nose wrinkling slightly in distress.

The group laughs but it doesn’t feel like it’s at your expense.

“Woulda made it with venison, but it’s hard to pick buckshots out of meat,” another man pipes up, giving Arthur a sideways look. He’s heavy-set with stringy brown hair and a thick mustache, garbed in a simple pair of pants and a sweater underneath an apron that’s stained from regular use. You contend that he’s the owner of the butcher’s wagon.

“Like to see  _ you _ get out there and bring some game in for once, Pearson,” Arthur retorts before taking a long swig from his bottle. He steps over the log in front of him and takes a seat beside Uncle.

You finish your bowl of stew faster than you intend, not realizing how hungry you’d been. You watch the group as they talk and laugh, smiling along with them when someone makes a joke or tells a funny story. 

For the first time in a long time, with these complete strangers, you feel like part of the family.

The moon passes further along in the sky and one by one, people filter off to bed. Your eyelids become heavy, and as the fire starts to fade, you hear Karen yawn and hope it’s time for you to retire for the night as well.

“C’mon, girly,” Karen says as she stands up and stretches. “Let’s find you some extra blankets. Goodnight, Arthur.”

He nods at her and you realize he’s the last one left at the fire. 

Karen and Tilly head off, but you hesitate before following them.

“Goodnight, Mr. Morgan,” you say, and his gaze floats up to yours.

“G’night, Miss Hawkins.”


	5. My Silver Lining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I don't want to wait anymore  
>  I'm tired of looking for answers  
> Take me some place where there's music and there's laughter  
> I don't know if I'm scared of dying  
> But I'm scared of living too fast, too slow  
> [Regret, remorse, hold on, oh, no, I've got to go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sNNYtm2XJGc)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting a CW here for brief mentions of infertility and a miscarriage, just in case that squicks anyone, as well as references to domestic abuse.

That night, you dream that all your teeth fall out, and upon waking, you clutch at your jaw, sighing in relief when you find them still intact.

The sounds of a busy campsite greet you as you roll over on your cot, squinting in the light that streams through the tiny opening in the front panels of the tent. You prop yourself up on an elbow, wiping the haze from your eyes, and find that both Karen and Tilly are long gone. You sit all the way up and stretch your limbs, now sore from your escape the night before, and your stomach growls when you smell that persistent aroma of food.

As you inhale a long breath of fresh air, you try to remember the last time you slept so well, and start folding up your bedroll before storing it beside Karen’s and Tilly’s.

You step out of the tent and find that the whole campsite is far livelier now than it had been last night; people you haven’t met yet are doing chores or having conversations amongst themselves. You glance around for a familiar face to save you from how out of place you feel and spy Pearson at his wagon, chopping away at some vegetables. You smooth your hands on your pants and make your way over to him.

“Good morning,” you smile politely and Pearson glances over his shoulder at you before turning all the way around.

“Well, good morning, Miss Hawkins,” he says cheerfully, wiping his hands on a towel and leaning against the wagon. “I’m assuming you slept pretty well,” he jokes.

“Yes,” you say shyly.

“Good,” he nods. “It can take a while for some people to get used to sleepin’ rough, ‘specially if they’re used to a, uh, king-sized bed.”

You take his jest in kind as he grins wryly at you. 

“Do you have the time?” You ask. 

“Sure,” he says, reaching into his pocket for a watch. “About… 9:53.”

“Thank you,” you say. He nods. “I was wondering if there’s anything I could help with around camp.”

“Oh, there’s plenty,” Pearson laughs. “Take your pick. Could help the girls with the laundry - they’re down by the river,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “If you feel like gettin’ your hands dirty, I’m sure John could use some help with the horses.”

“Alright,” you nod.

“There’s coffee, if you’re so inclined,” he adds, pointing to the fire pit you’d sat by the night before. A large percolator sits on the ground a safe distance away from the embers.

“Thank you, Pearson,” you say, flashing him a smile before making your way to the fire pit.

“Thank _you_ , Miss Hawkins,” he says.

You pour yourself a small cup of coffee, the steam billowing up into the air as the dark liquid cascades into the tin mug. You blow gently into it to cool it before you take a cautious sip, and as the scalding drink passes over your tongue your nose scrunches up in disgust. It’s so bitter that you have to keep yourself from spitting it out, and you glance back towards Pearson’s cart, wondering to yourself how likely it is that he’d have sugar on-hand.

“Ain’t quite what you’re used to, huh?”

You turn back to the fire, careful not to spill the hot liquid, and you’re met with the sight of Arthur moseying up beside you, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smarmy grin.

In the sunlight of the morning, you’re struck by how brutishly handsome he is; all steely eyes, squared jaw, and stubble. Strands of his light brown hair hang loose from underneath his hat, just grazing the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’s dressed in a simple pair of brown pants with a patch on the knee and a forest-green button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the sun-golden skin of his forearms. Your eyes are drawn to his chest, where he’s left the top three or four buttons undone, and you quickly look away.

It’s maddening.

“Oh,” you say, and your voice doesn’t quite cooperate. You clear your throat, and Arthur gives you a funny look. “Good morning, Mr. Morgan. And no, it’s not.”

 _What is wrong with you?_ You ask yourself. _Get it together._

You pass him the percolator when you spot the mug in his hand, and he snorts as he fills his cup before returning the percolator to its home by the fire.

“Too rough-and-tumble for your refined tastes,” he suggests before taking a sip of the stuff, unfazed by it.

“I’m afraid so,” you admit reluctantly. You chew the inside of your lip thoughtfully before risking your next question. “Is there any chance my gracious hosts have sugar cubes?”

He hums an abrupt laugh through his nose.

“Only sugar ‘round here is reserved for the horses, Miss. But maybe you can bribe one of them for some.”

“Well,” you sigh. “Nice to know I’m lower on the food chain than your ponies.”

“Wish I could say you’ll get used to it, but, honestly, I don’t think an upstanding woman like yourself would.”

You narrow your brows at him and purse your lips tightly in annoyance.

Just as he takes another sip, someone calls out to him and he turns in their direction. You follow his eye-line and find a man with shaggy black hair and rugged features. Paired with his scrawny frame, he looks a lot younger than you guess he is.

“Hey, Arthur,” the man says as he strolls up to the two of you. His voice is naturally somewhat hoarse. “Dutch wanted to talk to you ‘bout somethin’. Oh, g’mornin’, Miss,” he says, tipping his hat to you. “You must be Johanna.”

“That’s right,” you nod.

“John Marston,” he says, placing a hand on his chest.

“Pleased to meet you, John,” you smile, inclining your head slightly.

“Well,” Arthur laughs. “Don’t you just sound like a gen-u-ine _lady_ ,” he jeers, prompting a grin from John.

You make a face at him.

“Ain’t no _lady_ ,” you assert. “I’ve left that behind.”

“If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck,” Arthur drawls with a shrug.

“Maybe it’s a goose,” you suggest suddenly, pointedly. “And some _fool_ just dressed it up like a duck.”

A genuine laugh erupts from his chest and you feel a little self-conscious.

“Maybe you’re right, Miss Hawkins,” he says finally with a crooked grin hanging on his lips. “I ain’t no expert, but I don’t know many proper ladies who run off with outlaws in the middle of the night.”

You cross your arms, unsure of how to reply, and you’re saved by Dutch calling from his tent for Arthur to hurry up. Arthur sighs and takes another gulp of his coffee before tossing the remainder of it into the dirt in one swift motion.

“Don’t let me keep you, Mr. Morgan,” you say, watching him and John leave. “I wouldn’t want to be a _bother_.”

He turns to you briefly to reply. “Ain’t no _bother_ ,” he says before chuckling to himself. “Goose.”

You decide to help the other girls with laundry day, and your trek to the river fills you with a light nostalgia as you walk. It’s been so long since you’ve been in the woods like this; you close your eyes and remember the last summer of your youth before you’d been sold off to Dalton as a last-ditch effort by your father to save the ranch. You remember your father calling after you as you’d sprint into the arms of the woods, honeysuckle lilting on the breeze and filling your nostrils with its sickeningly-sweet fragrance. You’d hide from him and your given responsibilities only to return reluctantly in the evening to a scolding from both him and the house maid, sweat long dried on your brow and against the small of your back.

You pause to rest a hand against the bark of a tree for just a moment, stealing this small piece of time for yourself. The tree is rough and solid, your palm tickled by the hundreds of tiny ravines in its surface. Small creatures lurk just out of sight in the brush. Songbirds flit between the branches overhead, calling and answering one another. The sun throws thin, splotchy beams of light through the leaves. You inhale deeply, feeling invigorated by the scent of sap and distant smoke and earth.

And to think, just last night you were wishing yourself dead.

You are free.

Truly, and finally, free.

You find the river where Karen and Tilly are busy scrubbing away at clothes on washboards. Pearson had been right - both of them are beyond enthused for you to help with the laundry, their shoulders slouching with relief. A lively conversation buzzes between them as they work, but you are content just to listen as they talk, sing, joke, and laugh, and you feel that long-hardened thing in your chest threatening to loosen up. You close your eyes, the fear looming inside your skull telling you to push the feeling away. Being vulnerable meant being taken advantage of. Being let down. Being responsible for letting others down. 

“You’re awful quiet,” Karen observes, pulling you back to the moment.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, giving a breathy laugh. 

“That’s - girl, you ain’t gotta be sorry,” Karen laughs. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Just hope you’re adjustin’ okay. Seem like you slept alright.” Karen wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her arm. 

“Musta needed it, too. You were out like a light when we got up this mornin’,” Tilly adds, wringing the water out of a yellow skirt. “Figured we’d let you rest.”

“I appreciate it,” you say earnestly, stirring up the suds in your bucket. “Last night was… a bit overwhelming.”

“Yeah?” Karen asks, her curiosity getting the better of her.

You nod. “How much have you heard?”

“Not much,” Tilly shrugs. “Just that you were married to a rich man who weren’t exactly who everybody thought he was. And that Hosea wanted you for the gang because you were an actress or somethin’.”

“That’s pretty much the long and short of it,” you say. “I escaped once before, a few weeks back, but Arthur found me and took me back home. Apparently there was a large reward for it. But he didn’t know the whole situation. Hosea said it was his wrong to right.”

“That sounds like Hosea,” Tilly says. 

You allow yourself a small smile. 

It’s been a while since you’ve washed clothes, being that Dalton had the house staff do it, and it shows. Fit as you are from dancing, you’re still behind the other girls’ pace, and although they don’t seem to mind, you can’t help the nagging feeling that they’re judging you for it. Sweat drips off your brow and occasionally into your eyes as you work, your hands cramped and raw.

Once the mountain of dirty laundry has been conquered, the sun is high in the sky, and the three of you begin to tote the heavy baskets of wet clothing back up the hill. You push yourself to keep up with the other women, remembering Arthur’s teasing about you being a well-to-do woman. The last thing you want is to appear weak, but as you return to camp you start to feel light-headed. When you reach the clotheslines strung up at one edge of camp, you decide to set your basket down before you end up falling down, leaning against the nearest tree to catch your breath.

“You alright?” Tilly asks as she sets her own basket down.

“Yeah,” you nod, pushing off the tree with one hand and fetching a fistful of clothespins with the other. “I’m just not used to this anymore.”

“What, manual labor?” Tilly jokes, her face crinkling into a grin. She shakes out a pair of pants and they flap loudly against the balmy air. “That must be nice.”

“Your husband must’ve been _really_ rich,” Karen says, pinning a shirt to her line.

“He is,” you answer, wringing out a dress.

“That bruise on your face why you wanted to get away from him?” Karen asks and your body seems to lock up for the briefest of moments, caught off-guard by Karen’s brusqueness.

“Karen,” Tilly says, her tone a sharp warning.

“What? I’m sorry,” Karen says defensively.

“Hon, you ain’t gotta talk about it if you don’t feel like it,” Tilly nods reassuringly to you.

You swallow thickly and try to get back to your task.

“No,” you say. “It’s alright. No point in hiding it.” You reach into your basket, retrieving a pair of pants. You shake them out before you pin them to the line, that sharp edge of your heart pressing against your ribcage. You grind your teeth as you search for the words that might be enough to describe exactly the man you’d been forced to spend the last four years with.

“Dalton liked to drink. Liked to gamble. Liked playin’ mind games and he _loved_ chasin’ his way up other women’s skirts. He was hateful when he drank and when he lost at cards. More than he wasn’t, he was violent. I was always doin’ something wrong in his eyes. I tried to leave more than once. He stopped lettin’ me go outside the house unless he was around or one of his cronies was watching me. The only thing I was allowed to leave the grounds for was to dance at the theater so he could pocket my wages.”

The other girls are quiet as they contemplate your answer, and for a moment you think you’ve said too much.

_They don’t care. You’re oversharing._

Your stomach churns angrily and the back of your neck gets hot.

“He sounds like a real bastard,” Karen spits, her face worn into a deep scowl.

“I guess marryin’ rich don’t count for much if he’s just gonna beat on you,” Tilly surmises, a hint of venom in her voice. At Dalton in particular, or at the world for the things it’s forced women to do to have to get by, you don’t know.

“Men’ll beat on you whether they got money or not,” Karen states.

“Yeah, but the rich ones can get away with it easier,” Tilly adds. “I’m sorry you had to go through all that. But you’re here now.”

It’s enough to make the pain in your chest bearable, at least.

“That’s the good thing about the gang,” Tilly continues, her voice optimistic and light. “You can start fresh with us. Put all that behind you now. We ain’t much, but I hope we’re at least better than what all you left behind.”

You feel a lump in your throat. And the pressure in your chest is replaced by a new feeling, something you don’t quite have a name for. _Hope?_ You aren’t sure.

 _Why are they being so kind to me?_ You wonder.

“How long were you married?” Karen asks.

“Four years and some change,” you answer grimly. “It wasn’t always like that. He was good to me, in the beginning.”

“That’s how it always starts,” Tilly says bitterly as she carefully untangles the lace strings of a shawl. “Promisin’ you the world just to pull it right out from underneath you once you can’t get away.”

“Yeah,” you sigh in exasperation. “I didn’t dislike him at first, but I didn’t exactly want to marry him either. He sweet-talked my daddy into it. Dalton had money and my daddy needed money to keep the ranch afloat. But he was already chompin’ at the bit for a good excuse to get rid of me.”

“Why’s that?” Tilly asks.

“I used to give him all kinds of Hell ‘cause he wanted me to act dignified and I wasn’t too keen on doin’ that. I wanted to play in the mud, ride horses, herd cattle just like my brother, but that ain’t for women to do according to my father. Him and Dalton were in agreement on that.”

A mischievous giggle bubbles up from Karen’s throat as if she can relate.

Tilly hums a sound of sympathy.

“At least you don’t have any children with him. That definitely woulda complicated things,” Karen says.

She was likely aiming to be supportive, but the words sail tauntingly into your core and strike deep within you. Your fingers pause around the clothespin in your hand. The shirt in your hand is only halfway hung up, and as it flaps heavily in the breeze, you realize it’s the same blue button-up Arthur had been wearing the night before when he showed up to your rescue. Somehow, it becomes your only anchor to the Earth, and you’re sure that if you let go of it, you’d drift away into the sky like dew evaporating in the morning sun.

_At least you didn’t have any children with him._

_You didn’t give him a child._

_You couldn’t give him a child._

As if the past 24 hours never happened, you’re back in your bedroom at the Dulvey estate, staring into your mirror. Your reflection is a terrible thing to look at. You hate the woman you see there for her many, _many_ failings, but especially this one.

You reach for a hairbrush and toss it at the mirror, your throat spewing forth a guttural scream of rage. Your reflection shatters and falls to the carpet along with the glass shards, leaving behind an empty wooden frame.

You had wanted a family - a real family - for so long. Wanted a child that you could give a better upbringing than the one you had, but even so, you could not change your body's nature simply by wishing, nor could you change your husband’s. Even if your womb was competent enough to know what to do with his seed, Dalton only wanted an heir. You knew deep down he was incapable of loving a child the way a child should be loved. And there was a rebellion that burned deep in your bones, raging against the idea that being a mother was what you were _supposed to do_. It was a choice you'd gladly make had it not already been foisted upon you.

You recall the malformed, broken body of the child you'd borne far too early and how Dalton had been angry with you instead of showing you even a shred of compassion. It was, perhaps, the loneliest time in all your life, and you realize now that you don't remember much more about it than that.

You think of the sound the lantern had made when you smashed it against Dalton’s head. The bloody glass flying everywhere, the burnt skin on his face. You wish now you’d finished the job, if only to protect some other poor soul from the fate you suffered. 

* * *

Arthur drops the sack of grain he’s carrying and it thunks on the ground beside the chicken coop. He pulls his knife from his belt and shaves one corner of the bag away from the rest, dipping his hand inside and loosing golden pellets from its interior. He tosses them towards the chickens and they spill and gather in the grass. The hens croon excitedly as they strut over to their meal.

He repeats the motion, shaking more feed free from his hand for the little birds, and recounts his earlier conversation with Dutch and Hosea.

_“We need to find out if that girl’s going to stay with us and for how long,” Dutch said before puffing on his cigar. “We can use somebody like her.”_

_“She’s had a rough go of things. I want her to feel comfortable,” Hosea added._

_“What if she_ ain’t _stayin’?” Arthur interjected, causing his adopted fathers to turn their heads to him. “You really think some high-falutin girl like that’ll help wanted men break the law?” He asked, tucking a thumb behind his belt buckle._

_“Don’t you think you’re projectin’ a bit, son?” Dutch asked, cocking his head._

_“Don’t bring Mary into this,” Arthur warned him._

_“Give her a chance, Arthur,” Hosea pleaded patiently. “I think we can make a con artist of her yet. She knew who we were when she struck that deal with me. She won’t go cryin’ wolf to the authorities. We can trust her.”_

“If you say so,” Arthur mumbles to himself quietly as he dusts his hands off. He strolls lazily over to his tent and takes a seat on his bed, retrieving his journal and a pencil from his satchel.

He flips to a new page and starts to sketch with loose, gestural lines.

You had rubbed him the wrong way initially, and if he was honest with himself, perhaps he was projecting his anger at Mary onto you. That, and he felt guilty about what’d happened to you after he’d returned you to Mr. Dulvey, and he didn’t know how to reconcile it within himself. 

The lines begin to fill the page, taking the shape of a human face. As the pencil ghosts over the page, the wispy lines curve and shift, starting to resemble a loose imitation of your likeness. He fills in the fine details once he’s satisfied with the overall construction: your pointed nose, your sharp eyebrows. The pouty lips that crest at the top in a prominent Cupid’s bow. Your hollow cheeks and your soft eyes that shine like emeralds in the sun. Hair the color of those little chocolate bars that sat in the front windows of sweets shops. He pays careful attention to the detail of your black eye, hatching in shadows to match the clouded color there. You’re so thin from malnourishment he’s surprised your arm didn’t snap clean in half when Dalton grabbed you the night of your return.

Hosea’s words echo in his mind: _She’s had a rough go of it. I want her to feel comfortable._

Beneath your portrait, he scrawls your name and a phrase: _A golden cage is still a cage._

He takes a breath and sets his pencil down, examining his work as he scrubs a hand over his chin.

You’d rubbed him the wrong way initially, but you’d also apologized for it. And if Hosea trusts you, well, Arthur supposes that’s good enough for him. He could tolerate you, at the very least.

He sighs in resignation and tucks his journal back into his satchel, then stands up and starts looking around for you. Laughter carries through the air, drawing his attention, and he turns absently in the direction of the sound to see some of the girls hanging up freshly-laundered clothing. You included.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he mutters to himself, mildly pleased. 

He makes his way toward the three of you but sees you stop short after Karen asks you something he doesn’t hear. You’re frozen in place, mid-action, hanging up one of his shirts. He stalks over to you carefully, watching the wind blow strands of your hair around. 

“Ladies,” he says as he inclines his head to Karen and Tilly.

They both greet him, but you stay silent.

“Miss Hawkins,” he says, waving at you. 

No response.

“Miss Hawkins,” he tries again, and it seems to startle you out of your stupor. 

You look at him as if through a haze, your eyes blinking rapidly, lips parted.

“You alright?” He asks, one brow cocked. He exchanges a look with Tilly and Karen, the latter of whom shrugs.

“What?” You ask suddenly, your voice hoarse. You search his face for something but don’t seem to find it.

“I said, are you alright? Look like you saw a ghost,” he tells you, enunciating a little more and trying not to laugh as he shifts his weight.

“Oh, I - yes. I’m sorry,” you apologize, clearing your throat and moving twice as fast to catch up with your work. 

He watches you finish pinning up his shirt before retrieving another item of clothing from your basket. 

“I see you helped with the laundry,” he observes, gesturing to your basket.

“I did,” you say, shaking out another shirt. 

“Hosea asked me to check on you, see how you were settling in,” he continues. You pause at the mention of Hosea’s name and it seems to ground you in some way.

“Oh?” You say. “I’m fine.”

“I’m, uh, glad to hear it,” he nods, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it, then.”

“Okay,” you say, giving a half-hearted smile.

“Karen, Tilly,” he says, nodding to them as he turns to leave.

* * *

You worry the inside of your cheek as you finish up the last of your laundry. If Arthur didn’t think poorly of you before, he surely did now.

That night, by the fire, you eye him cautiously as you eat your dinner, and try not to overthink it.

The next several days pass just like that: chores from sunup to sundown, hearty food and pleasant company around the fire in the evening. Dutch and Hosea rule that everyone should lie low for a little while, lest you risk being tracked down by Dalton’s manhunt efforts. So, you fall into the rhythm of the rest of the camp’s inhabitants. With your days filled with things to do and your body too tired at night for your mind to wander very far at all, you find a semblance of what you imagine is peace. Tilly offers to let you borrow some things from her wardrobe until you can make a trip to town for your own new clothes, and being that you’re close to the same size, it’s one less thing to worry about.

One morning in particular, you’re tasked with horse duty, joined by John, and it’s your introduction to the camp’s iron woman, Susan Grimshaw.

“Well,” she says. “Ain’t you a pretty little thing. Don’t let it go to your head. You gotta pull your weight just like everyone else. You see somethin’ needs doin’, you do it.”

“Yes ma’am,” you nod politely.

“Well,” she says, surprised. “Need more of that attitude ‘round here.”

Miss Grimshaw takes her leave and Karen makes a face at her behind her back. Tilly laughs and you try to keep from laughing, but the corners of your mouth betray you.

“Try not to get on her bad side,” Tilly says.

“Tch,” Karen snorts. “I don’t think she’s got a good side.” She rolls her eyes. “Mean old bird.”

“Alright now, Karen,” Tilly says. “She ain’t that bad.”

“Bullhell,” Karen argues. 

* * *

You and John make decent time cleaning the pasture and brushing down the mounts, and while he’s scrawny and could use a haircut, he seems nice enough. He doesn’t talk much, which suits you just fine; you’re more content to listen to other people’s conversations than participate.

It comes time to retrieve the horses from the hitching posts, including Arthur’s and yours, and as you approach Arthur’s mare, you marvel at her rich, crimson dapple bay coat, her sooty mane and tail, and black stockings. A large white blaze runs from her forehead to her nostrils which are splotched with pink.

“Hey there,” you murmur to her and her ears prick up. She whickers at you as she turns her head as much as she can with her reins still attached to the post. You stroke her neck as you retrieve the reins and the horse follows along politely. 

John grabs the horse you rode in on, and the two of you move them to the pasture, removing their saddles and setting them off to the side.

“What’s her name?” You ask, your curiosity getting the better of you. “She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” John agrees. “Name’s Boadicea,” he answers, his drawl stretching out the syllables.

“Really?” You scoff.

“What?” John asks.

“Arthur named her that?”

“Sure,” John chuckles. “Why?”

“Nothing,” you shrug, running the brush down the horse’s side. “Just didn’t expect it, is all.”

“Dutch and Hosea took Arthur in when he was pretty young. Took me in, too,” John explains. “They brought us up, taught us how to read. Dutch has a… flair for the dramatic.”

“I noticed,” you grin as you continue brushing. 

“He taught from history books,” John continues. “Him and Hosea, they had us read all these different ones about Greek mythology and all. My guess is Arthur got her name outta one of them.”

You hum a thoughtful sound as you run a hand down Boadicea’s leg, capturing her hoof in your palm. You pick at her hoof carefully, clearing away the mud and debris.

“What’s yours called?” John asks as he brushes down the side of the animal.

“Oh, I… don’t know,” you breathe shyly, continuing on to the next hoof.

“What? You ain’t given ‘im a name?” John asks.

“Well, he’s - he don’t belong to me, technically. I stole him from my husband, or from one of his goons, and I wasn’t exactly going to stop and ask what his name was.”

“Well,” John laughs. “Look’it you, proper lady stealin’ a horse. I gotta remember to tell Arthur.”

You make a face at him.

But maybe it would do you a favor if John told him. Maybe Arthur would find it funny. Maybe he’d be impressed and quit looking at you like you had killed his dog. Not that it matters. You shake your head to shake away the thought.

“It’s bad luck to have a horse without a name,” John informs you.

“I thought that was boats,” you counter, scrunching your brow in thought.

“Oh.” John pauses. “Hell, I don’t know. You’re prob’ly right. Still, you oughta give ‘im a name. I’d say he’s as good as yours now.”

You look at the horse then, your stolen stallion. Probably a quarter horse by his stature. Blue roan coat, silky black mane and tail. A white stripe down his face with a small pink splash of color at the end of it.

“Erebus,” you say, and John makes a face like you’ve just spoken a foreign language.

“Gesundheit,” he chuckles. “Is that… what you’re gonna call him?”

“Yes,” you grin. “I think so.”

“Well then,” John says, reaching into a bag off to the side. “Take this.”

He pulls his hand out and meanders over to you, approaching you with his closed fist extended toward you.

Your brow quirks up and you hesitantly reach out your hand. Into it, John drops a single sugar cube, and you blink at him.

“For the horse,” he says, nodding towards the animal.

“Ah,” you say, turning to give it to your new horse. The horse’s mouth tickles against your palm as it scoops the cube up with its lips and devours it with a satisfying crunch.

“Now, if you tell Arthur I showed you where these are, I’ll deny it.” A joke.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so INCREDIBLY grateful and pleasantly surprised at how well this fic has been received so far, and how much love Johanna has been getting. Seriously, I'm weeping. I feel God in this Chili's tonight. Anyways, thank you to everyone who's been reading and everyone who has left such wonderful and kind comments. It means the world!


	6. Head Full of Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s a darkness upon me that’s flooded in light  
>  In the fine print they tell me what’s wrong and what’s right  
> And it comes in black and it comes in white  
> And I’m frightened by those that don’t see it  
> When nothing is owed or deserved or expected  
> And your life doesn’t change by the man that’s elected  
> If you’re loved by someone, you’re never rejected  
> [Decide what to be and go be it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeYSqZPzwr8)_

You wash up at the river once you’re done helping John with the horses, and return to camp just after noon. Hosea recruits you for a grocery trip, both so the three of you can restock camp’s supplies and so you can buy some new clothes. You accept the invitation, but you still hesitate by the wagon before leaving, fraught with anxiety.

“What if we run into Dalton’s men? You’re not gonna let them take me back, are you?” You ask him quietly, your brows pinching together.

“Of course not, dear,” Hosea assures you. “You’re one of us now. We won’t let anything happen to you.” His promise is genuine as he speaks to you, your hands clasped between both of his. “Right, Arthur?” 

“Sure,” Arthur drawls, his accent dropping off the end of the word like always.

Relief settles into your bones after he says it and Hosea helps you up onto the wagon. Hosea drives, leaving you free to watch the countryside go by, and Arthur rides beside the wagon on his mare like a sentry. Hosea takes the wagon to the next town over anyway, just in case, and on the way there, he regales you with stories of the gang’s very early days, when he and Dutch first met.

“So you were robbin’ _each other?"_ You chuckle.

“That’s right. And wouldn’t you know it, instead of getting into some kind of… blood feud, we bonded over it. Then we got into some trouble up in Ohio, ended up running into Arthur here, and took him under our wing. He was quite the delinquent when we found him.”

“I resent that,” Arthur calls gruffly.

“Now, Arthur, I said _was,"_ Hosea laughs. “You’ve become quite the conman! With our help, of course.”

“I wasn’t aware there was much of a difference,” Arthur snorts. 

Hosea pulls the wagon around to the side of the general store, slowing the horses to a stop. He climbs down first and offers you a hand, and after you step down, he reaches into his pocket to retrieve a folded slip of paper and a money clip.

“Now, I’m going to the train station to check the mail. Everything we need is on this list. Keep your head down, stay close to Arthur, and you’ll be fine.”

You nod, chewing the inside of your lip, and Hosea gives Arthur an authoritative look.

“Keep an eye on her,” he says, turning to leave.

“Sure,” Arthur answers, leading you up the wooden steps of the storefront. He pushes the door open and a bell chimes, alerting the man behind the counter to your arrival. He welcomes you, and Arthur holds the door open for you as you step inside.

“Thank you,” you nod, and Arthur inclines his head as if to say _you’re welcome._

“Let me know if I can help y’all find anythin’!” The mustachioed clerk says with a pleasant smile wrinkling his features. 

You unfold the paper Hosea gave you, skimming the list as you reach for a shopping basket. You move down the aisles intently, pulling things from the shelves and dropping them into your basket, the handles tucked into the crook of your elbow. Arthur moseys around, always closeby, collecting a stash of items into his own basket. You catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of your eye, humbled by how tranquil he looks. He reaches for a can of peach slices in syrup, reading the label patiently. He almost looks bored. It’s the most unbothered you’ve seen him, apart from when he’s sketching away in that journal of his; no hard lines creasing his brow, no clenched jaw, no tensed shoulders.

He catches you staring, raising an eyebrow at you, and you quickly look away, resuming your shopping. After a minute, he continues down the aisle, but you still yourself as a certain display catches your eye: a collection of books stacked neatly on a shelf: fiction novels and poetry collections.

Arthur glances over his shoulder to make sure you’re still following but does a double take when he sees that you’re lagging behind. He watches an absent smile crease your lips when you reach out a hand to run your fingers over the spines of several books. Your delicate fingertips finally pause on one in particular and you pull it from the shelf to examine the cover. _Oliver Twist._

He clears his throat quietly after allowing you time enough to skim the first page, and your eyes flit to him with a slight start. He nudges his head to the right, a signal for you to keep it moving.

“Sorry,” you breathe, tucking the book back into place and catching up to him.

“Y’ain’t gotta ‘pologize for every little thing, y’know,” he tells you patiently.

You open your mouth, almost apologizing a second time, but then purse your lips. “Old habits,” you say instead, giving him a half-hearted smile. 

You make your way to the clothing section, anxiety prickling at the back of your mind. 

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks, pulling your attention away from a canary yellow number.

“I… Well, I suppose I’ve got to give Tilly her clothes back at some point,” you say.

“Okay,” Arthur says. “And?”

“Oh, well, I don’t want you to have to wait on me lookin’ at clothes.”

He sighs, and though it sounds like it’s in irritation, you just manage to catch a smile on his face as he ducks his head.

“Miss Hawkins,” he says. “Part of the point of comin’ shoppin’ was to get you new clothes.”

“I know,” you say, a little embarrassed. “But -”

“But nothin’,” he shrugs. “Get you some stuff,” he gestures to the racks of various clothing items. “We ain’t got no place to be.”

“Okay,” you acquiesce, and he offers to take your shopping basket from you.

He takes both baskets to the clerk, leaning on the counter while he waits for you.

You pick out several things - blouses and pants and the like, as well as a plain red bandana and a little bottle of lavender perfume - remembering the money you found in the saddlebag, and do the math in your head of what you can afford.

You carry everything to the counter and as you set it down, glance at the hat rack. You try a few on, turning your head this way and that in the mirror before you find something that you think looks decent: a black stalker hat with a silken black band, tied off with a neat bow. You pop it onto your head before you walk back to the clerk, finding Arthur turning through the pages of the catalog on the counter.

“That one suits you,” Arthur says without looking up from the book.

Your face flushes and you look at the floor, trying to hide the color in your cheeks beneath the brim of the hat.

Arthur inquires about purchasing a few crates’ worth of perishables and the clerk adjusts his glasses while he crunches the numbers. You produce the money clip Hosea gave you along with your saddlebag money. The clerk takes your payment and makes change for you, and then Arthur sets one more thing down on the counter: the book you’d been eyeing before.

Your brows come together, your mouth falling open just slightly.

“This too,” he says, pulling a few extra bills out of his pocket and smoothing them out before handing them to the clerk. The clerk hands him back his change and Arthur slides the book over to you.

 _When had he…?_ You hadn’t even noticed him go back for it. He had actually paid attention to the one you were looking at, and here he was, buying it for you like it was nothing. But what did it mean? Did he want something from you or had he finally decided to accept your apology and was now trying to extend the proverbial olive branch?

“You’re all set,” the clerk says with a grin. “Gimme just a minute and I’ll help y’all load up your wagon.”

“Thanks, Mister,” Arthur tips his hat to the clerk and turns on the heel of his boot to leave.

You follow him outside, clutching the book tightly in your arms.

“Arth-” you start, correcting yourself. “Mr. Morgan.”

He glances at you as he sets a crate on the back of the wagon.

“Thank you. For the book. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t have to say nothin’,” he tells you. “You’re welcome.”

You help carry what you can to the wagon, trying to hide your satisfaction with the progress you seem to be making on fitting in with the gang.

“Y’all homesteadin’?” The clerk asks with a toothy smile as he totes a crate of something to the back of the wagon.

“Somethin’ like that,” Arthur answers.

“Well, best of luck to ya. Y’all come back soon. I could use a few more customers like yourselves.”

“‘Preciate it,” Arthur nods, hopping down off the back of the wagon and shutting the tailgate closed.

With the groceries all loaded up, all that’s left to do is wait for Hosea. Arthur leans against the tailgate and lights a cigarette.

“I’m gonna run to the gun shop real quick,” he says, exhaling a tidy puff of smoke. “Gotta pick up a few things.”

“Who’s gonna watch the wagon?” You ask.

“I guess you are.”

“B- wait, Hosea told me to stick with you.”

“I ain’t goin’ far, Miss Hawkins. Gun shop’s right across the street. It’ll only take me a minute. Read that new book of yours.”

You cross your arms, too nervous to speak up, lest you ruin the newfound tolerance between the two of you.

“Just stay right here. Hosea’ll be back any minute, you’ll be alright.”

“Okay,” you mutter. 

He takes another drag of his cigarette and saunters across the street and into the gun store.

You scan up and down the main road, looking for Hosea. Too nervous to read your book, you settle on going to stroke the forehead of one of the tawny draft horses pulling the wagon. You hear the General Store’s bell chime and watch from your periph through the side window as two male figures approach the counter. They strike up what looks like a casual conversation with the clerk before one of them produces a piece of paper, unfolding it and handing it to the clerk. The man adjusts his glasses, poring over whatever is on the page before he raises his arm to point in your direction.

You freeze, your heart dropping into your stomach so violently that you fear you might collapse.

_No. It’s fine. They’re just asking for directions._

You glance back through the window, but the men are gone.

You exhale slowly and hear the door chime once more. To your horror, they round the corner and start to mosey in your direction. You wait, trying your best to not look suspicious as the men approach you. You ignore them, focusing instead on untangling a knot from the horse’s mane.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” one of them says, waving a hand at you.

You give them a look of disinterest.

“Hm?” You say. You don’t recognize these two from Dalton’s usual outfit but they do look the part; pomade-slick hair underneath their hats with matching black pants and jackets.

“Sorry to bother you,” the second one says. “How are you doin’ today?” He props an arm against the side of the wagon.

“Just fine,” you answer politely. “And yourselves?”

“Oh, we’re doin’ just fine. We was just wonderin’ if you could help us with somethin’,” the first one says. “We’re lookin’ for someone, looks an awful lot like you.”

“Is that right?” You ask. “And how would I be able to help you with that?”

“Well, you could start by tellin’ us if the name Johanna Dulvey rings a bell.”

You swallow your fear as your knees threaten to buckle.

“I can’t say that it does,” you lie as casually as you can.

“So that’s not _your_ name?” The one leaning on the wagon asks. “Johanna Dulvey, wife of oil magnate Dalton Dulvey?”

“No, sir,” you shake your head innocently. 

“You sure? ‘Cause you look an awful lot like the woman in this here photograph.” The first man says, producing a printed image and turning it to you.

Sure enough, there’s your face, miserable as you remember feeling.

“How strange,” you say. “Guess I just have one of those faces.”

Before the men can say anything else, a gruff voice behind them makes them turn away from you.

“Sweetheart, are these men botherin’ you?” Arthur asks, slinging a shiny new rifle over his shoulder.

“They were just leaving, actually,” you insist politely and the men give Arthur a dirty look as he passes between them without sparing them a glance.

He reaches for you as if it were the most natural thing to him, pulling you in close and partially shielding you with his body. You place a hand on his chest and tell yourself it’s in an attempt to make the gesture look more natural. He’s solid as stone beside you as you cling to him for safety.

“Apparently there’s some girl missing,” you tell him. “Looks just like me.” You gesture toward the photograph and Arthur inspects it momentarily before his eyebrows advance up toward his hairline.

“Well, would you look at that,” he says. “It’s a small world after all. I’m afraid you got the wrong woman, folks.”

The two men scowl at Arthur.

“Barbarella and I moved out this way some months ago with her father - speak of the devil, there he is now!” Arthur laughs, gesturing animatedly to Hosea.

“Hello, son,” Hosea says. 

“Pop, come look at this,” Arthur says, waving him over. “Girl in this photo looks just like Ella. They mistook her for this missin’ girl, uh, say, what was her name again?”

“Johanna Dulvey,” the first man grumbles.

“Well, I’ll just be damned,” Hosea chortles, scratching his head. “I’m afraid you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, friends.”

“Our mistake,” the second man says with a sarcastic smirk. 

“That’s alright, pardner,” Arthur says. “Best of luck to you now.”

“Have a nice day, folks,” the first man says, and the both of them skulk away, back toward the center of town.

Hosea and Arthur make sure they’re gone before they turn their attention back to you.

“Y’alright?” Arthur asks quietly, letting go of you.

You realize then that you’re shivering, and you flinch when Arthur’s fingers touch your own, trying to unfurl them from the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” you say several times, breathlessly, but you're not even really sure what for. For grabbing Arthur's shirt, for the trouble the gang is now in because of you, for needing to be shielded. It all feels like more failures stacked on top of those that exist, have existed for many years and will continue to exist for years to come.

Hosea lays a delicate hand on your shoulder as he and Arthur lead you over to the wagon and help you up.

“It’s okay,” Arthur says as if he were talking to a frightened animal. 

“We need to leave,” Hosea says in a hushed tone, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Act natural.”

You stare straight ahead as Hosea whips the reins, urging the horses forward. Arthur climbs onto his horse and takes up a position behind the wagon. You pull out of town at a leisurely pace, but once you’re out on the main road, he makes the horses pick up the pace.

“Johanna, be ready to jump off the wagon if I say,” Hosea warns you.

“What? Why?” You ask, the panic clear in your voice.

“Try to stay calm,” Hosea says, focusing on the road ahead as he pulls his pistol from its holster. “They might try to follow us. If they do, I’m gonna pull the wagon off the road and stop. I don’t want to risk leadin’ them back to camp. If we stop, you climb down off the wagon, find somewhere to hide. Just take cover.”

You nod but your breathing grows unsteady.

Unfortunately, Hosea is right.

“Got riders comin’ in behind us!” Arthur calls, prompting you to whip your head around. You count at least five of them, horses galloping after you at top speed, and they’re gaining on you.

Hosea slows the horses a bit before turning them off the main road and toward the woods.

You duck instinctively when you start hearing shots, looking back in time to see Arthur fire that new rifle of his, catching one of the riders in the shoulder and sending him sailing backward out of his saddle and into the dirt.

“Go!” Hosea tells you, waving you toward the woods.

You follow his instructions and leap off the side of the wagon, running as fast as you can into the woods. You crouch behind a tree and try to catch your breath, the sounds of the fight still echoing behind you.

Hosea climbs into the back of the wagon to take cover, taking shots when he can, while Arthur fights expertly from horseback, strafing back and forth on Boadicea to take down Dalton’s hired help one by one.

You’re so distracted by peeking around the tree to watch the fight that you don’t notice the person sneaking up on you until it’s too late. 

“Thought you got away, didn’t ya?” A large hand wraps around your upper arm and you shriek hoarsely, looking into the partially-burned face of Ivan. He covers your mouth before you can scream. “Hello, Johanna.”

* * *

Once the fighting dies down, Arthur returns to the wagon to check on Hosea. 

"I think that's the last of them," he says, giving Boadicea a pat on the neck. 

“Okay,” Hosea nods, scanning around for more signs of trouble. “I’ll keep an eye out, go check on Johanna.”

Arthur nods his assent and climbs down off his mare to come find you.

“Miss Hawkins!” He calls. “All clear! You can come on out.”

No answer.

He exchanges a look with Hosea.

“Miss Hawkins!” He tries again, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. His brows slant. “Johanna-”

“Arthur! _Help!”_ Your wild shriek carries through the air and the desperation in your voice makes his blood run hot. He breaks into a run, following the sound of your screams and finds you hanging helplessly over the shoulder of a man nearly two and a half times your size. He’s hauling you toward a pair of horses, one of which is already occupied with a rider.

Arthur pulls his revolver from its holster.

“Hey! _Stop!”_ He bellows threateningly, but the man carrying you doesn’t obey. “I’m _warning_ you!”

The one on horseback looks up and draws his own gun at Arthur, but before he can zero in his shot, Arthur’s gunfire finds him, swiftly and without mercy. Two shots to the chest, the momentum of which sends him toppling over the side of his mount, which spooks and takes off, dragging him through the dirt by his boot, still hung up in the stirrup.

Arthur then fires his revolver three more times, careful to miss you when he takes aim at Ivan. Each one finds its mark; two straight into his left calf and a third into the back of the same knee. Ivan grunts in pain and stumbles ungracefully, dropping like a swatted fly, landing on top of you when his leg gives out and his body goes limp.

You squeal and whimper in terror, squirming under Ivan’s dead weight. Arthur finally reaches you and pulls Ivan’s body away from you. You struggle to crawl backwards on the heels of your hands and Arthur steps in front of you, acting as a barrier between you and your would-be captor.

Your chest heaves with panicked breaths as you watch Ivan, and you shriek when he moves suddenly to reach for the gun on his belt. Before he can do anything else, Arthur fires the last round in the cylinder of his Schofield into Ivan’s chest, silencing him for good.

You put a hand over your mouth at the shocking brutality of it, the reality of death, the reality of Arthur Morgan killing someone, several someones, to protect you.

“They’re dead,” you rasp. “You killed them!”

He reaches out a hand to help you up but for some reason you can’t figure out you swat it away, your eyes as wide as a doe at the end of a hunting rifle’s scope.

“You killed them,” you repeat, tears streaming down your bloodied cheeks. “Why did you do that?”

He stands up straight, not knowing what to do with himself.

“I just saved your damn life,” he corrects you.

“You didn’t have to - to -” you stammer as you gesture weakly at Ivan’s corpse, unable to find the rest of the words.

“They was gonna take you back to whats-his-name! And I seem to remember you askin’ us to keep you safe from anyone tryin’ to do that. I was just doin’ my damn job.”

You don’t respond. You just sob again.

“Get up,” he instructs you flatly as he reaches for you again, trying one last time to help you up. The second his fingers touch your arm, though, you spring up unsteadily, stumbling backward like a cornered, wounded animal.

“Don’t touch me,” you breathe, your voice paper-thin.

He grits his teeth at you but Hosea finds him then, motioning for him to leave you be.

“She’s gone crazy,” Arthur growls.

“She’s in shock, Arthur, she don’t mean it. You know that,” Hosea tells him. “Come here, dear.” Hosea motions for you to come toward him and you do. “It’s all okay now. You’re safe. We’re gonna get you home.”

You cling to him like a frightened child, your complexion white as a sheet, and Arthur crosses his arms as he watches Hosea cradle the back of your head, hiding your face in his vest.

* * *

Hosea takes the long way back to camp just in case anyone else gets any funny ideas, but no other pursuers show up.

The girls make a fuss over the blood on your clothing and take you to get cleaned up.

“Please,” you rasp, not knowing what to do with all the attention. “It’s not a big deal.”

“I’ve half a mind to go give that piece of _shit_ a taste of his own medicine!” Grimshaw crows as she ushers you down to the river, a change of clothes and some soap in tow.

Hosea catches Dutch up on what happened, and the two of them decide it’s time again to pick up and move.

“We need to leave. Before he catches up with us,” Dutch says, tapping his cigar to let the excess ash drift away. The orange flecks of light float away on the breeze and Arthur gets a chill in his bones.

“I agree. He wants her back, and _bad.”_ Hosea shakes his head. “I don’t intend on letting that happen.”

“Me neither,” Dutch agrees.

“Y’all are gettin’ mighty attached to her,” Arthur chimes in irreverently. “Don’t she kinda seem like more trouble than she’s worth?” He asks.

Dutch and Hosea both shoot him a look.

“Son, did you _conveniently_ forget the last 12 hours?” Dutch asks. “The last several weeks? How she’s been carryin’ her weight without bein’ asked, how she’s brought morale up?”

“No, but -”

“Then why are you _so_ intent on throwin’ her to the wolves? On doubtin’ us wantin’ to keep her around?”

Arthur huffs a breath of frustration, gathering the words before he says them.

“She ain’t like us, Dutch! Some high-falutin lady, off to play outlaw like it’s all make-believe. You shoulda seen the way she looked at me today after I saved her skin.”

“Arthur, I already told you, she was responding how any regular civilian would to something like that. You grew up in the life, you’re used to it.”

“She can’t handle this life,” Arthur argues. 

“Maybe so,” Dutch suggests. “Maybe not the robbin’ and killin’ part of it. But you’re not seein’ the big picture here. Have a little faith, Arthur.”

“And what is the big picture, exactly?” He asks, resting his hands on his hips.

“This is an investment opportunity. Pretty young thing like that who can blend into the high society. We train her to be like us, little help from Trelawny for example, bring her in on Hosea’s schemes. It’ll be like takin’ candy from a baby.”

“There ain’t _no_ way she’ll -”

“Enough, Arthur,” Hosea snaps then, his brows narrowed all the way down. “You’re not giving her enough credit. The girl needed our help, so I helped her. She was in a bad way and desperate. Don’t be angry with her for a decision I made.”

Hosea’s words have a note of finality to them that tell Arthur he’s better off letting this one go. There was no winning this argument, tonight or perhaps ever. Better just get used to it.

He trudges to his tent to retire for the evening, pulling the front panel closed. He lies down on his back, his fingers laced together to cradle the back of his head. Irritation prickles in him. Was this how it was gonna be from now on? Dutch and Hosea worshipping the ground you walked on? Keeping this naive little girl happy by laying the world at your feet. Making him your personal watchdog?

He sighs and sits up, his back against the side of the wagon, and pulls out his journal to draw. 

You make a new appearance on a page next to one containing the image of an electrified tree. This time you’re lying on the ground beside your bloodied kidnapper, your eyes blown wide open. He turns the page and starts to write.

_It’s times like these I realize why Mary left me. I ain’t got patience for spoiled women who look down on_

He pauses. Perhaps he was being too hard on you. You were barely older than John and you were just doing what it took to survive. Same as him or anybody else in the gang. You had to have some kind of spine to survive under the thumb of a person like Dalton Dulvey. And he hated to admit it to himself, but you’d begun to grow on him. Much to his irritation. You had a way of doing that with folk, he’d learned: making them grow fond of you just by being around. You worked hard and honestly, and because you were content to keep to yourself, he felt inexplicably drawn to know more about you.

He tears out the page and starts again. This time, looping and hatching and scrawling the lines to depict you in a better moment. In fact, his favorite moment from the day.

You’re trying on your new hat, smiling absently at your reflection. Your hair sits in a low updo at the nape of your neck and long strands of your hair hang on either side of your face from beneath the black headwear. The hollows of your cheeks have filled in a little and your clothes are no longer so loose that they drape off of you like massive sheets.

This time, when he adds his thoughts, they’re much kinder.

_I continue to be perplexed by Ms. Hawkins. Sometimes she seems like the kind of folk who don’t think of us outlaw types as people, and yet, she treats us all like people. I find myself wondering if it’s like she said: she’s really just a goose somebody trussed up as a duck._

_Regardless of what I think, Hosea says she needs us, and maybe we need her. That Dalton feller was a snake if I ever seen one. I know his kind. I know what he would do to her if he ever caught her again. I suspect she knows it too, which is why I don’t think I will ever forget the look on her face when I shot that man was trying to take her._

_She’s put her money where her mouth is, though, and does her fair share without any lip, so long as it don’t involve killing folk. But Hosea says I need to give her more time to adjust. I wonder if she will adapt the way he and Dutch seem to think she will. They think she could be an asset to the gang, help us steal from rich folk since she knows how to blend in. And they have made me her unspoken bodyguard, despite my feelings on the matter. I suppose we shall see in time._

He takes a breath as he closes his journal and tucks it away. Still feeling restless, he decides to go for a smoke. He plants himself under the cover of a tree at the edge of camp, just across from the hitching posts, and lights a match on the heel of his boot.

As he exhales a puff of smoke into the night sky, he watches the clouds that move briskly overhead, concealing and then revealing their navy blue backdrop again and again. He drops his spent cigarette to the ground and grinds it under the heel of his boot. 

That’s when he notices you in the pasture, running a brush across the side of your horse at a snail’s pace. He moseys up to you and you spare him a glance.

“Little late for chores, ain’t it?” He asks wryly. 

You continue brushing down the animal, not even granting him so much as a smile.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say quietly. 

He nods, waiting for you to elaborate.

“I just keep… thinking.”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself,” he jokes dryly and you snort humorlessly. “What’re you thinkin’ about?” He asks, taking a step closer.

You study him, your brows pinched together.

“Today,” you offer, breaking eye contact with him.

“Mhm,” he hums, and the tone of his voice makes it sound like a question.

“And… about… well, I wanted to apologize, Mr. Morgan,” you confess, facing him.

He watches you, one eyebrow cocked.

“I wasn’t trying to…” you start, unsure of where the thought is going. You huff in frustration. “I’m sorry about today. You were only doing what I asked. It just was all a little overwhelming.” You shake your head as if you’re frustrated with yourself. “I hope you can understand. Thank you for keeping me safe.”

He glances at the ground and bites back a laugh. 

“Stubborn old thing, ain'tcha,” he says, crossing his arms. A wry smile turns up one corner of his mouth.

“As a mule,” you say, grinning crookedly.

“Thought you was a goose,” he says, stepping toward Erebus and running a hand down the animal’s side. “Which is it?”

“Both, I’m afraid,” you sigh, unable to contain the self-conscious laugh that makes its way up from your chest. You hide the unbidden sound behind your hand.

The men at camp seemed to fall all over themselves for that smile, and here in the moonlight, even as he dreads what the realization means, he can’t deny it: you _are_ beautiful. He clears his throat and looks away from you. 

“Y’always sound proper when you apologize,” he mentions casually, chastising himself internally for the fleeting consideration of your appearance.

“Do I?” You ask.

He makes a sound of affirmation.

“I don’t mean to,” you admit.

“Old habits?” He asks.

You nod, smiling wistfully at him.

“I reckon I owe you an apology, too,” he confesses with difficulty, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know you ain’t used to this way of life yet. And… must’ve been scared of what coulda happened. So, I’m sorry.”

He can’t discern the look on your face, but he gathers enough about your reaction from the way you clear your throat and sniffle.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. That means a lot,” you tell him. “I don’t know why I was so upset today when you killed Ivan. He was a very bad man and I was terrified of him for _years._ He deserved what he got.”

“Well, I guess you had about as normal a reaction as any other decent person.”

You fidget with the hem of your dress and nod but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

“I don’t _feel_ like a decent person,” you say, and he isn’t quite sure he’s heard you right.

“What’chu mean?” He asks.

You hesitate for a long time. The wind picks up and caresses the fabric of your skirt.

“You and I both know I don’t belong here,” you say, dodging the question. “You said it yourself, I’m not cut out for this. I’m too soft. Too…” You search for the word. “Sheltered. I should just pack it up and face the music. Or whatever else is waiting for me on my father’s doorstep.”

“Now, that’s not what I meant,” he argues patiently, his voice sympathetic. 

You remain unconvinced.

He panics internally, smoothing a hand over the stubble on his jawline as you turn back to your horse.

“For what it’s worth, Hosea wants you to stay.”

You seem to be swayed by that. At least a little.

“Dutch, too,” he adds. “And John. And the girls. Hell, even Miss Grimshaw wants you to stick around.”

You smooth out your frock, your next question making the backs of his ears feel warm.

“And what about you, Mr. Morgan?” You ask. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Oh, well,” he sighs, shifting his weight to one leg. “I didn’t,” he admits.

You nod as if you’d been expecting a similar answer.

“But I’m comin’ around to the idea.”

You hum a thoughtful sound.

“I guess that’s all I can ask.”

“Don’t take too much stock of what I think, though,” he adds. “It’s your decision.”


	7. Road Full of Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There was a dream and one day I could see it  
>  Like a bird in a cage I broke in and demanded that somebody free it  
> And there was a kid with a head full of doubt  
> [So I’ll scream til I die and the last of those bad thoughts are finally out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeYSqZPzwr8)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a shorter one.  
> Thank you to everyone for reading and leaving such kind comments, it means so much!  
> You can find the song Johanna sings [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=btcGAAahSTs).  
> See y'all next week B)

You decide to take a chance on writing home and Arthur can’t figure out why it bothers him. 

Dutch and Hosea make the decision to uproot and migrate to Colorado, and the journey goes well, despite the heat of late summer bearing down on all of your backs. You settle into a little abandoned homestead a fair distance from a mining town called Redglen, and on your first day there, you post a letter to your family at the train station. You’d written it and re-written it over and over on the road to Colorado, trying to find the words that might make them understand. You’d decided to address it to your older brother, Jacob, in the hopes that he would be more compassionate than your father, but it’s been a long time since the two of you have spoken. In fact, you can’t remember a single correspondence from either of them the entire time you lived at the Dulevy estate, and it makes you a little heartbroken.

A week and some change later, Hosea and Arthur accompany you to the train station when you go to check the post for a response. It’s a slow day for travel, so there aren’t many people around to see your eyes tear up when the man behind the counter tells you there’s nothing for anyone by your name.

You’re standing on the wooden station platform when the train pulls in, chugging down the track slower and slower as its brakes squeal and it comes to a halt, hissing and blowing steam all around.

“I knew it was a long shot,” you say to Hosea, leaving the clerk’s desk. “But I had hoped they would at _least_ send _something.”_

“Patience, my dear,” Hosea tells you. “Maybe they did and it just hasn’t arrived yet.”

You chew your lip thoughtfully as a scarce few people emerge from the train and into the station.

“Johanna, thank goodness!” A strange man calls.

All three of you turn in the direction of the man’s voice and Arthur’s whole body tenses when a set of fingers latch around your arm. You whirl to face their owner with fear in your eyes. The man’s other hand goes to a pistol on his hip and he draws it on Arthur in a flash, but not as fast as Arthur can draw his own; he’s pure instinct, the rugged animal of his body honed from years of fighting for his life to defend himself and those who belong to the gang. He and Hosea beat the stranger to the punch, all three of them holding each other at gunpoint as you struggle against the man’s grip.

The other patrons of the station gasp and start to hurry away from the scene as the clerk behind the counter ducks for cover.

“Hands off the lady, friend,” Arthur growls, his brow narrowed heavily as he scowls at the stranger.

“‘Fraid I can’t do that,” the stranger responds, his bushy, dark eyebrows narrowed over his emerald green eyes.

“Jacob, let go of me!” You demand, swatting your way out of his grip. You push him away from you, throwing your full weight at him and forcing him back half a step. You then plant your feet between him and Arthur and Hosea with your back to them in a protective stance.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?!” The man called Jacob demands.

“What’s the matter with _me?”_ You ask. “Put the damn gun away before you do somethin’ foolish.”

Arthur almost laughs at the sight of you, this tiny spitfire of a woman standing protectively between two so-called ruthless killers and a man he doesn’t know from Adam.

Your words confuse the man, though, and he straightens up slightly, his gun hand drooping to the side. His brow furrows as he observes the three of you, possibly doing the math in his head about who might win this shootout.

“Gentlemen, if you _please!”_ The ticket office’s clerk shouts, his hands raised slightly in surrender.

Finally the stranger - Jacob - adjusts his posture, lowering his pistol begrudgingly.

You breathe a sigh of relief, glancing at Arthur and Hosea over your shoulder, and the two of them put away their guns as well.

“You know this man, Johanna?” Hosea asks you and you nod.

“This is my brother, Jacob,” you explain. “But I see that instead of writin’ me back he decided to come find me in person.”

“Well, of course I did!” Jacob stammers. “We ain’t heard from you in _years,_ then one day, out of nowhere I get a letter from you, postmarked from somewhere in the middle of Colorado. Not to mention the letter I got from your husband a week before _that,_ tellin’ us you’d been kidnapped and were bein’ held for ransom.”

You’re stunned to silence.

“That son of a bitch,” you mumble. 

Jacob makes a face at your choice of language.

“Perhaps we should take this conversation outside,” Hosea suggests.

Jacob gives him a nervous look but sees that he’s out-voted. He follows the three of you reluctantly and you find a quiet spot on the far side of the train platform at a set of tables and chairs. You take a seat and Jacob takes the one across from you, eyeing Hosea and Arthur nervously. Hosea sits to your right and Arthur doesn’t sit, but instead leans against the wooden support beam behind Jacob, his arms crossed.

“Johanna, what’s goin’ on?” Jacob asks pleadingly.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” you start. “I wasn’t _kidnapped._ I ran away. Escaped. And I ain’t bein’ held ransom by a gang. I _am,_ however, bein’ kept safe from Dalton by one.”

He gives you an incredulous stare, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“And why would I believe that?” He asks you. “They haven’t left your side this whole time. Maybe you’re just sayin’ what they told you to say.”

You sigh.

“Jacob, I understand why you’d say that, but -”

“And why would you try to run away from Dalton?” He interrupts you. “Run away from your husband, man who gave you everything, off into the night with a bunch of degenerates? No offense,” he says, holding up a hand to Hosea and Arthur. 

“They ain’t degenerates,” you argue. “They’re -”

“This ain’t like you, Johanna,” your brother whispers nervously, reaching across the table to grab your hand, but you pull away from him, gathering your hands in your lap. “This ain’t decent.”

You huff in exasperation. “I don’t care if it’s decent!”

“You should!” Jacob argues flatly.

You roll your eyes. “How can you say it ain’t like me? How would you kn-”

“It just ain’t,” Jacob argues, interrupting you again.

“You wanna try lettin’ her speak?” Arthur asks gruffly, the authoritative tone in his voice making Jacob pale. You give Arthur an appreciative look before continuing.

“Who are you to say what is or isn’t like me?” You ask. “You don’t even know me.”

“I would, if you had just talked to me. If you had answered any of my letters over the last four years.”

“I did write you,” you say, choking up a bit. “I thought you were the one who wasn’t answerin’ me.” 

He considers that for a moment. “Are you bein’ serious?”

“What reason would I have to lie about that?” You ask.

He must not know, because he doesn’t answer.

“Dalton always told me there were never any letters from y’all. He also said he sent all of mine out,” you say quietly, your frown deepening.

“Okay,” Jacob acquiesces reluctantly. “Well, that ain’t reason enough to run away from home. You said you escaped?” He asks skeptically. “Escaped from what?”

“From him,” you say, your gaze dropping to the table.

“That doesn’t tell me anything,” Jacob crosses his arms.

“What else is there to say?” You ask him. “He was…” Your words seem to fail you and you squeeze your eyes shut, working your jaw as if you just can’t make yourself say what you really want to.

“Let’s just say he was someone worth escapin’ from,” Hosea interjects patiently, laying a supportive hand on your arm for a brief moment.

“What did he do that was bad enough to make you run off with a bunch of people you don’t know?”

“I do know them,” you reply quietly.

Jacob throws his hands up in quiet frustration.

“You’re still not tellin’ me anything,” Jacob says flatly.

“Son, can’t you just take her word for it?” Hosea asks. 

While he’s talking you reach up to the red bandana tied around your neck and begin fidgeting with the knot.

“All due respect,” Hosea says to Jacob. “You can do the math. The thing with the letters, the fact that she asked a bunch of complete strangers to take her away from him. It’s gone now, but when we found her, she had a shiner the size of -”

Hosea stops when you lay your bandana on the table, baring your neck for Jacob to see.

Arthur’s seen some things in his life, but he’s still shocked when he sees the mark on your skin.

At the midpoint between your collarbone and your chin sits a scar about the length and width of a pencil, stretching from the middle of your throat to the spot just underneath your right earlobe. It’s uneven, likely from whatever stitches had been put there to keep you alive, but slightly faded from the passage of time.

“Jesus, Johanna,” Jacob breathes in horror, covering his mouth. “Did he…?”

You don’t answer him. You just retrieve your bandana and tie it back around your neck carefully.

Arthur exchanges a look with Hosea, but neither of them say what they’re thinking. Arthur can’t speak for Hosea, but as for himself, all he can think about is cutting Dalton in the same place, and several other places, and letting him bleed out on the floor, choking on his own blood.

He’d known you to prefer high-necked shirts or your trusty red bandana, but never thought much of it. He thinks of cutting Dalton open, yes, but he also thinks, fleetingly, of grabbing hold of you and never letting you go, if only to ensure that no harm came to you ever again. You’d endured enough.

Jacob runs his hands over his face and through his hair as he collects his thoughts.

“So you _are_ in danger,” Jacob surmises quietly. “Just not from who I thought.”

You let out a breath and finally look up from the table to meet his eyes. “Yes.”

“Johanna, I -” Jacob stammers, leaning toward you. “I am so sorry I never figured it out.”

You cross your arms and fidget with a loose thread on one of your sleeves, avoiding eye contact.

“Look,” he starts. “You don’t need to rely on this - this gang to take care of you anymore. I’ll take you home, we can explain everything to daddy, and you can go back to livin’ like a lady should -”

You give him a mean look then.

“What?” He asks.

“You don’t get it.”

“I - what don’t I get? I believe you, okay?”

“It’s not -” you stammer. “It’s more than that. You keep talkin’ like what I’m doin’ is beneath me. Beneath you. Like I can’t handle myself.”

“That ain’t what I meant, I just -”

“It is _too,"_ you assert. “You sound _just_ like him. I didn’t escape from one prison just to hop right into another.”

“Prison?” Jacob scoffs. “Johanna, don’t be so dramatic!”

“I am living, truly living, for the first time in my life. I don’t have to answer to a husband, or to my father. I get to make my own choices. You’re just too caught up with bein’ daddy’s favorite to realize.”

“Now, Johanna, that ain’t fair,” Jacob replies. “Daddy has nothin’ to do with how I feel. I'm my own man. But you and I both know you’re too delicate for this life.”

You blink in surprise, cocking your head. You narrow your brows at him as you prepare your rebuttal.

“Let’s talk about fair, shall we?” You ask. “Let’s talk about how daddy married me off to some man I didn’t know after keepin’ me cooped up in the house for most of my childhood. Let’s talk about how even though I somehow made it out of that situation alive, you still think you need to come to my rescue, spoutin’ the same horseshit I grew up hearin’ from him. You didn’t become your own man. You just became more like him.”

Jacob doesn’t respond, his lips pressing into a thin line before his gaze drops to the table.

“Do you _honestly_ believe he’s gonna let me come back, just like that? No questions asked? Do you think _daddy_ is gonna keep me safe from Dalton’s men when they come lookin’ for me? Would daddy have believed me and taken me away from that place if I’d asked him to? Would _you?”_

He still doesn’t respond.

“Jacob,” You say, your voice pitching slightly higher.

“I don’t know,” he admits finally as he shrugs. “I don’t know. But I know if you come home with me right now, I promise I’ll make him see reason. The train is leavin’ soon, just -”

“To hell with the train,” you say.

“What?” Jacob asks in confusion.

“I love you,” you admit. “But I’m not comin’ home. Tell daddy you paid off my kidnappers. Hell, tell him I joined the circus. It doesn’t make a difference to me.”

“Johanna,” Jacob groans pleadingly. “This is a fool’s errand!”

“Maybe so,” you shrug. 

“Then why won’t you see reason? Let me help you.”

“I have to do this,” you tell him. “I’m tired of bein’ the damsel in distress you two seem to think I am. You wanna help me, let me go. And if Dalton comes callin’ you don’t know where I am.”

“Fine,” Jacob concedes finally, his expression a mixture of judgment and concern. “I see there ain’t no changin’ your mind. I just hope you don’t end up dead in a ditch, or worse.”

Arthur and Hosea wait while you walk with Jacob back to the train to drop him off.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks you. “A gang? They seem a little… violent.”

“I’m sure,” you promise. “They’re good people. They’re only violent to people who wanna hurt me.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it, I suppose,” Jacob says hesitantly.

You pull him in so suddenly for a hug that he almost doesn’t have time to react.

“Goodbye, Jacob,” you say. “We’ll see each other again someday, I promise. Will you write me?” You ask him, the gesture seeming to soften his demeanor. He wraps his arms around you tenderly.

“Sure,” he answers. “Please be safe.” 

Most everyone is glad to hear it when they learn you decided to stay. Arthur can’t deny it; he’s glad you’re staying too. He realizes it consciously a few days later, when you’ve set to changing out the sheets in all the bedrooms; he’s sitting at the desk in the room he was assigned, sketching away in his journal.

He hears you singing down the hall and pauses to listen as your voice finds his ears.

It’s an old worship song, but to hear you sing it, it sounds more like a celebration of a wish come true than a celebration of faith.

_Oh, the caged bird dreams of a strong wind_

_That will flow beneath her wings_

_Like a voice longs for a melody,_

_Oh, Jesus, carry me_

He thinks of the scar on your throat and of a songbird trapped in a golden cage and he can’t help the feeling that rises within him; something he doesn’t even have a name for that swells up inside his heart and makes it hard to breathe. You’ve taken root inside his chest and begun to grow there, slowly but steadily, and he couldn’t have stopped it even though he’d tried. 

The melody grows softer but closer and he turns in his chair when you give a light knock on his open door.

“Hi, Mr. Morgan,” you say, smiling politely at him. “Got a fresh change of bedding for you.”

“Thank you,” he says, waving you in and turning back to his journal.

You start to pull the sheets off his bed, balling them up before tossing them to the floor by the closet, humming the rest of the song quietly. Every now and then Arthur catches a word or two of the lyrics:

_I will pray, pray, pray,_

_Till I see your smilin’ face_

He smiles to himself, feeling both guilty and satisfied that you seem comfortable enough to behave so unguardedly around him.

When you start to shake out the fresh sheets and put them on the mattress, Arthur folds his journal closed and rises from his chair, pushing it underneath the desk when he leaves it. He approaches the opposite side of the bed from you and reaches for one corner of the sheets, helping you pull them up and over the top corners of the mattress.

You thank him and he nods, the exchange passing between you easily.

“So, that brother of yours,” Arthur starts. "He's, uh…"

"A piece of work?" You supply wryly. 

Arthur snorts. "Sure."

"He means well," you sigh, draping the top sheet onto the bed. "He just doesn't understand. Talking to him, it was like…" You trail off, looking for the words as you adjust the sheet to the right length once Arthur pulls out all the slack. "Like he opened his mouth and our father's voice came out."

The two of you tuck the excess fabric under the bottom edge of the mattress, making it look neat and tidy. 

"Anyway, I'm… sorry you had to see all that."

"Well, it was a real horror show," he drawls sarcastically.

"It was embarrassing," you admit with a shake of your head, and when you reach up to press a fingertip to the fabric of your shirt collar, he wonders if you even realize you're doing it. 

"Weren't nothin' I ain't seen before," he tells you with a shrug. "Family's tough sometimes."

You nod, studying him for a beat. 

"Thank you, Mr. Morgan," you tell him. 

"Don't mention it," he says, giving you a shy but earnest grin.

That night, you sit in an armchair in a corner of the main cabin’s den, curled up with your book. You look up from the pages every now and again to watch Arthur, sitting by the fire with Uncle and Javier, and you can’t stop your heart from fluttering every time he laughs. You feel guilty, but you can’t stop thinking about when he’d protected you so closely that day outside the general store in Indiana; the way his large, calloused hands hand held you, the way he’d smelled of coffee and woodsmoke and tobacco, the way that - possibly for the first time in your life - you’d felt safe in a man’s arms. He’s hulking and mean and angry and dangerous, but he’d made you feel safer in that one moment than your well-to-do husband had in four entire years.

You fall asleep that night, trying to hold onto that feeling, and dream of Arthur’s smile and blankets in the grass on a summer day.


	8. After Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In dead of night, one window open  
>  He heard her singing down the hall  
> Singing 'bout him, least he was hoping  
> [She left her listener enthralled](https://youtu.be/IaeKCIBuHlI)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for a brief description of infant death.  
> 

A month goes by without a warning, the summer stretching on as you labor under the Colorado sun, your days spent working or learning more about the gang’s way of life: stealing from those who steal from others and giving back to those in need. You’re introduced to Trelawny, a slippery sort who instantly takes a shine to you and starts spinning a yarn of the possible trouble the gang could get up to with your help. You shadow Karen and Tilly in town, learning how to glean useful information from men in the saloons, but you stay far away from any brothels, lest the patrons confuse you for a working girl. You don’t want to risk having to be intimate with a man in any capacity; it was, in your experience, an easy way to have violence visited upon you, and you’d endured enough of that from Dalton. 

You’re taught to shoot by the gang’s more skilled gunslingers, both for protection and for offensive encounters, should the day come that you’re involved in any. Each member of the gang has their own advice and tips, but the people you learn from the most are Arthur and Dutch. Arthur finds himself pleased with your progress; you take to it more quickly than he’d thought you would. You aren’t a natural-born gunslinger, but you can, at the very least, hit the broad side of a barn, and more importantly, you listen to his instructions and are willing to practice when the ammo and time can be spared. 

He remembers your reaction the first time you’d hit what you were aiming at: you’d been beaming from ear to ear, bouncing on your tiptoes.

“Congratulations,” he’d said. “You just killed a tin can.”

You’d made that face at him that you _always_ make when he hits you with his dry humor: some variation of your hands on your hips and a roll of your eyes, pursing your lips to try and hide the smile that threatened to shine through. 

He’d modeled the correct posture for you for both handguns and then rifles, and kept a respectful distance when getting close enough to touch you and adjust your form by hand; a gentle palm on your back to remind you to straighten up, a nudge of your head to the side so you looked down the sights more clearly, a supportive hand underneath your own to fine-tune the way you held the forestock. And then, when you’d gotten the basics down, he’d set you loose to practice on your own at the makeshift shooting range on the old homestead's property. 

At some point, several of the men are involved in a stagecoach robbery, and they make off with a sizable take, meaning that the rest of you need to keep a low profile for at least a few days. You find yourself caught up on chores and stir-crazy, approaching Miss Grimshaw to find something that could fill your time. She recruits Arthur to take you to town for groceries, catching him just as he’s leaving. The law won’t be looking for him since he wasn’t involved in the robbery, and since he’s already on his way out, she insists that he can spare the time. He agrees, albeit begrudgingly.

He’s quiet the whole way there, though, and you can tell he’s far away, too deep in his head for small talk. You don’t disturb him, and buy the groceries without bothering him too much. It isn’t until you leave the general store on the wagon that he speaks up.

“So, listen,” he starts, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I’ve got to, uh, make a stop on the way back.”

“Alright,” you say slowly, wondering where he’s going with this. 

“I wanted to ask if you’d… well, that you’d keep it to yourself.”

“Sure,” you nod. “But… What exactly is it we’re stopping for?”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“Nothin’ bad,” he says. “It’s just. Not somethin’ I like to share.”

“Alright,” you say, an encouraging smile creasing your lips. “Ain’t like you haven’t seen plenty of my dirty laundry.”

He smiles knowingly. 

“I won’t tell a soul,” you promise, and he thanks you.

The thing he doesn’t like to share is the smile of a young woman about your age, living in a squat shack at the edge of town, arms full with a baby boy about a year and a half old. Arthur pulls her in for a hug and takes the baby from her, bouncing the small boy in his arms and grinning like you've never seen before. 

Her name is Eliza. 

The boy's, Isaac. 

At first, you wonder if you should leave. That perhaps this isn't meant for you to see. These are Arthur's private affairs, an old scar from a life he lived before. A violation of privacy so profound you may as well have looked into that journal of his and stolen his thoughts right off the pages. 

But then the woman asks if you're his, well, _something,_ and Arthur just shakes his head, the both of you laughing and telling her she’s incorrect. 

She has kind eyes and the two of you make fast friends, and you learn that she and Arthur aren't in love, but rather that they were amicably separated by circumstance. Their son is the unintended consequence of a one-night stand, the result of a foolish mistake Arthur made to cope with the loss of his first love, of being spurned in favor of another, one more ‘deserving’ and much less of a criminal. 

Something in your chest shifts at that fact, like a house settling, and you aren’t sure what to make of the fading jealousy that had been pulling at you. You help Eliza with household chores while Arthur watches the baby, and you can’t help the corner of your mouth that turns up when you see him in this unfamiliar role.

After you depart, you pose a question to Arthur:

“Do you think I could come back to see them sometime?” You ask and he glances at you from the driver’s seat. “That was a nice break from our everyday. Eliza’s a trip. Isaac, too.”

“Yeah, she is a peach,” he agrees, smiling wistfully. “Sure. I don’t see why not.”

Months go by before you have to leave the Redglen Homestead, and then you're on the move once more as time turns summer to fall and so on until a full year has gone by, and you see Eliza and Isaac twice more during this stretch. On your third visit to her home, however, you're met with the dreadful end to a story scarcely told. 

You’re supposed to be meeting Arthur there, but whatever job Dutch has him doing has him running late.

You approach the little house and climb off of Erebus, your boots landing firmly in the dirt. But instead of Eliza, you see a strange man come out of the door, tucking some money away into a billfold. When he sees you he stops, and you study his face, waiting for him to address you as the two of you share an awkward silence. And then he's gone, climbing up into the saddle of a black rabicano horse and racing away. You don't give chase, because there's nothing to suggest that you should, but when you call out for Eliza she does not answer, and you wonder if you should have pursued the stranger. 

You push the front door of her home open slowly and almost drop to your knees.

For a moment the world becomes slanted and you realize it's because you've fallen against the doorframe in your surprise, in your desperate denial and anger, and you stumble forward to the blood-spattered mess on the floor. 

You call her name again and again as you kneel beside her, clutching her in your arms and trying to wake her. But there are two ugly bullet holes bored straight through her abdomen, and her chest has long since stopped rising and falling. 

You can't control the bile that rises in your throat when you find Isaac. You empty the contents of your stomach onto the floor ungracefully, and your body erupts into a shaking mess of sobs as you take in the sight of his broken little body, too fragile and too vulnerable and too undeserving of the violence delivered unto him. 

You can't understand it; your heart and your mind reject the reality in front of you and you can't figure out who or why or how such a horrible thing could happen.

You hold your head in your hands, thinking then of the stranger with the billfold and the black horse, and you commit his face to your memory.

You drape a sheet over each of them, but it doesn't feel real, doesn’t feel like your arms and your hands, gently dragging the fabric over their bloody flesh. It feels like another of those times you're watching yourself from the balcony of the theater, waiting for the version of you on stage to glance into the crowd and tell you things aren't really what they seem.

You find yourself sitting on the edge of their little porch, your head hanging between your weeping willow shoulders, your knees pressed to your chest and your fists tangled in your hair.

You're pulled out of your stupor by the sound of hoofbeats, and you draw your revolver automatically. When you look up, though, your heart leaps into your throat, fracturing there and leaving behind splinters that prevent you from being able to speak.

"Miss Hawkins?" Arthur says, pulling Boadicea to a stop and dismounting. He notices the blood on your clothes and approaches you with the haste of a fast walk, the worry clear on his expression. 

"Y’alright?" He asks, looking you over and finally realizing the crimson life essence staining your shirt does not belong to you. "What's goin' on? Where's Eliza?"

You shake your head at him, and he stands there, looking confusedly into your desperate eyes. 

"Eliza!" He calls, trying to push past you, but you bring both of your hands up and press back against his chest.

"Arthur," you croak out, cutting him off when he tries to sidestep you. "Arthur, don't. Don't! Don't go in there," you sob as you try to keep him away from the door.

He doesn't seem to understand, or maybe he does and just refuses to believe it, but despite your best efforts, he makes it past you. 

You grab his arm and pull, digging your heels into the rotting wood of the porch, trying to keep him from going inside. But he is too strong, too much bigger than you, and when he nudges the door open he stops dead in his tracks when he looks upon the bloody sheet lying on the floor. 

You expect anger. You expect him to fly into a rage. You expect him to yell and throw things and blame you.

"I'm so sorry," is all you can say. "There was a man, I - he -" 

_If I had just gotten here five minutes earlier._

But his anger doesn't come. 

The world continues to spin, not even granting you a moment of reprieve as you numbly go to the tool shed to retrieve a pair of shovels. It’s like moving through water, the scenery around you muffled as it continues to buzz with sound and color that all feels very far away.

You drive your shovel into the dirt again and again and before you know it, you've opened a sizable hole in the Earth, digging until your hands are blistered and bloody. 

You and Arthur lower the two of them into the ground, their bodies wrapped in the sheets you laid over them, and once you’ve done the grim work of filling in their tombs and packing the dirt on top of them, Arthur hammers two makeshift crosses into the ground at the heads of their gravesites. _They will become food for the soil,_ you tell yourself, those splinters in your throat making every breath a burden to take, and it _hurts._ It aches in your chest like little else has before, save for the loss of your premature offspring. Even though Eliza and Isaac weren't yours to lose, you feel the gravity of their deaths like it's the presence of a stranger beside you. 

Arthur doesn’t leave with you when you go. Rather, he stays behind, sitting silently in the grass in front of their graves, staring at the neatly-packed mounds of dirt. Your mind drifts like leaves in the wind as you try to think of something, anything, to say that would be remotely comforting, but it all feels hollow.

Instead, when you turn to leave, you stop at his side and lay a hand on his shoulder, hoping the action speaks for you.

He responds by reaching a hand up to rest it on top of yours. 

You stay like that for a little while, tears slipping down your cheeks as your heavy heart mourns for and with him. 

When you leave, the ride to the nearest town is a blur, and when you come out of your stupor, you’re lying in a tub of steaming water in the confines of a hotel bathroom. Rain taps the window outside, the quiet and steady percussion a fitting backdrop for your mood, and you wonder if Arthur is still sitting beside the graves you helped him dig. You blink numbly to clear the haze from your vision and start to scrub away at your blood-caked skin. 

Arthur's anger does not come - not to you, at least. You can't say as much for the victim - or victims - of the bruised and scabbed-over knuckles he wears when he finally returns to camp more than two weeks later. 

During his absence, you honed your marksmanship as best you could. You’ve vowed to yourself that, so long as you can help it, you will not allow this to happen again. You will not allow the abuse and the torture you suffered from Dalton to happen to any more women or any more children. You'll hunt these predators down and exact your vengeance until they are extinct. 

When Arthur returns, he looks worse for wear: dark circles beneath his eyes and a haunted look behind his pupils. He reeks of whiskey - the scent so pervasive that it sends you into a silent panic as you remember Dalton's humid, drunken breath on your cheek. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath through your mouth, trying to push the feeling down. Dutch and Hosea beckon him over to talk about his time away from camp and you manage to make out a few of his words: something about investigating a robbery target and needing to keep a low profile afterward. They let him go and he meanders across camp, absently returning to his tent like his movements aren’t his own. He takes off his hat and lays it down on his side table, running a hand through his shaggy hair before he notices the little glass jar of dried-up dandelions, thistle, and white clovers. He gently pinches one of the leaves and it crumples between his fingers. 

You would have preferred something nicer, an actual bouquet of lilies or hyacinths like he deserves, but the measly bundle of weeds was the best you could afford, and you’d been able to drop them off without drawing attention to yourself. 

Miss Grimshaw approaches his tent and starts to scold him for looking so bedraggled, but before she can get too far into her spiel, he interrupts her to ask if she knows who left him the flowers. She doesn’t, though, and you feel grateful for that.

_“The flowers.” Not, “the weeds.”_

Your chest grows tight. Apparently he thought better of the gesture than you could have hoped. You glance back to your book just before he turns in your direction. Even though you’d decided to respect his privacy by keeping Eliza’s life - as well as her death - to yourself, perhaps after his long absence he would think the flowers a simple gesture of appreciation from any number of folks. You didn’t need him to know it was you. You just needed him to know that people cared for him. 

At supper, when Pearson calls out that the food’s done, you don’t see Arthur make a move for the stewpot over the fire. He doesn’t move an inch from his cot, lying on his back and staring blankly at the canvas fabric above him. 

“Got you a plate,” you say casually as you approach his tent. He glances up at you, a tired look in his eye. 

“Ain’t hungry,” he tells you. “Thank ya, though.”

“Come on,” you say. “I haven’t seen you eat today.”

“Just ‘cause you didn’t see it don’t mean I didn’t,” he argues dryly. “Ain’t lookin’ for pity, Miss Hawkins.”

“Pity?” You ask, taking a small step into his little living space. “This ain’t pity. I’m tryin’ to poison you,” you joke flatly.

He snorts. “I think usually the best approach to poisonin’ someone don’t involve tellin’ them you’re doin’ it.”

“Well, either way, I was excited for you to try it. It’s deer chili. I helped Pearson make it. Even hunted down the buck that went into the pot.”

“Didja now?” He asks, sounding uninterested. 

“Mhm,” you nod. 

He still doesn’t budge.

“Please, Mr. Morgan,” you say finally, changing your approach, prompting him to meet your eyes. “For me.”

He swallows then, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he gives you a look of reluctant acceptance. He sighs quietly before he sits up and swings his legs over the side of his bed. He lets you hedge the bowl into his hands and your features crinkle as you give him a warm smile before you turn to leave.

You join the rest of the gang seamlessly by the campfire, content to just be present for the company, and after a little while, Javier starts picking at the strings of his guitar as if he is picking his brain for a song to play.

“Javier,” you say. “Do you know ‘Fare Thee Well’?”

His eyes roll around as he considers your question, his fingers still plucking away at the strings before moving around to find a chord.

“I think so,” he answers, strumming the first chord of the song you’ve requested, and then the second, his brows quirked up as if to ask you if he’s got it right.

You nod, and Uncle moves to retrieve his banjo.

“Wait, I know that one too!” He says, 

“Oh, that is a good one,” Pearson says. 

“You gonna sing for us, Johanna?” Hosea asks enthusiastically.

“If y’all sing with me,” you say.

* * *

Arthur sets his empty bowl down on his night table and yawns, pulling the knot loose on the front panel of his tent and letting it fall closed. He lies back on his bed, resting a hand on his stomach, the other propped beneath the pillow under his head. He hears Javier strum a chord, and then another, before he picks up an old tune. Uncle joins in on the Banjo, plucking the rhythm to Javier’s melody.

After the intro plays out, yours is the first voice he hears:

 _If I had wings like Noah’s doves  
_ _I’d fly the river to the one I love  
_ _Fare thee well, my honey  
_ _Fare thee well_

Your voice rings through the air as clear as a shining, silver bell, and Arthur is grateful he is lying down, because it makes his knees weak. More people join in after the first verse, their voices mixing in harmony with yours but never drowning it out. Where some of the others’ notes waver or fall flat, yours remain crisp and resonant, filling the cavity of his chest like water gushing into the broken hull of a sinking ship.

 _I had a man, he was long and tall  
_ _Moved his body like a cannonball  
_ _Fare the well, my honey  
_ _Fare thee well_

Even more people are singing now, and Davey has joined in on his fiddle, changing your sorrowful hymn into a melancholy canticle of love and loss; a happy song with sad lyrics. 

_I remember one evening, in the pouring rain  
_ _And in my heart was an aching pain  
_ _Fare thee well, my honey  
_ _Fare thee well_

Arthur tries to hide the warm tears streaking down his face behind his forearm, tucking his eyes into the crook of his elbow. 

_Muddy river runs muddy and wild  
_ _Can’t give a bloody for my unborn child  
_ _So fare thee well, my honey  
_ _Fare thee well_

He thinks of the flowers left on his side table and of a haunting secret kept unspoken, a tender hand on his shoulder, and of the encouragement to eat, all of it coalescing into a picture nearly complete. He remembers your trembling hand against his chest outside the general store in Indiana, your fingers bunched into his shirt; the bottle of lavender perfume and the way you always smell of muted, floral sweetness, and the first time he’d made you laugh - _really_ laugh. Unanticipated, bright and wild, bubbling out of your chest like water from a fountain, too great to be hidden behind your hand the way you hid most of your happy sounds.

 _One of these mornings, it won’t be long  
_ _You’ll call my name, and I’ll be gone  
_ _Fare thee well, my honey  
_ _Fare the well_

He sniffles, picturing the blood staining your shirt and the feeling of your fingers around his bicep as you’d tried to shield him from such a poignant and tragic loss. The image of those same modest, manicured hands turned cracked and bitter against the work of turning over the Earth to lay his child and the boy’s mother to rest. The fact that, ultimately, you’d refused to leave him on his own to bury them when you easily could’ve. He wouldn’t have blamed you for it if you did. It was his burden to bear but you’d offered to help shoulder the weight without so much as a second thought.

He thinks of the graves he left behind, and of his only son, taken far too cruelly and far too soon. He thinks of Eliza, too innocent and too young to bear the consequence of his mistake, to have to die because he wasn’t there to prevent it. 

He couldn’t protect either of them.

 _Show us a bird flyin’ high above  
_ _Life ain’t worth livin’ without the one you love  
_ _Fare thee well, my honey  
_ _Fare thee well  
_ _Fare thee well, my honey  
_ _Fare thee well_

Javier and Davey and Uncle play you out, and you hold your final note longer than anyone else. The group erupts in celebration, begging for an encore from you, and you agree, suggesting another song. The little makeshift band you’ve assembled plays on into the night, and Arthur falls heavily asleep to the sound of your voice.

The following morning, you slip out of your tent to stretch in the early morning light, mist blanketing the whole camp as the grass relinquishes its moisture to the sun. You spy something tied off to one of your tent poles, though, and when you inspect it further, find that it’s a bundle of fresh flowers - lavender specifically. They’re bound together neatly with twine, and tucked beneath the fraying string is a folded piece of paper. You glance around camp, looking for a clue as to who’s left the gift, looking to Arthur’s tent to find it empty. _No rest for the wicked,_ you think, carefully freeing the note from the twine. You unfold it, the page flapping lightly in the breeze, and you can’t help the grin that overtakes your features when you take in its contents:

A blackbird in flight, its wing spread wide across the cream-colored page, and behind it, a distant, broken-open birdcage.

There’s only one person who could’ve left you such a special gift.

And he wasn’t even here to watch you receive it. 

You look at the fresh bundle of purple in your hand, its petals swaying in the breeze.

You didn’t need him to know you’d given him those flowers. Maybe he didn’t need you to know he’d given you these. Whatever the case, you are just glad your song seems to have worked.

It’s this silent exchange between the two of you that gives you the spark to go back to the theater; a muse that is something other than fear or pain or escapism. You approach Hosea about it, and he encourages you to use a stage name. Less than a week later, you’re introduced to the audience at the local playhouse as _Barbarella Blackbird,_ _the Songbird of the South._ It’s gaudy but it is intriguing enough to draw a crowd without identifying you to unwanted attention.

* * *

With time marching ever on, the pain of Eliza and Isaac’s deaths fades, leaving you and Arthur hardened in different ways. Neither of you are ever quite the same afterward; you notice the anger left over from your abuse festering into something darker, and you notice Arthur withdrawing from those around him, growing more reserved and more serious. The gang moves on, though, unaware of the traumatic bond you now share, traveling all over the untamed west. 

At some point, Uncle brings a woman by the name of Abigail to the camp and she decides to stick around. She’s young, and a prostitute by trade, and John becomes enamored with her. Your family gets bigger and bigger over the next couple of years, starting when Abigail gives birth to a baby boy that she decides to name Jack. For whatever reason, John refuses to claim the boy, and every attempt by Abigail to try to make him accept their accidental family makes him draw further and further away. 

This causes a disconnect in your relationship with John, and though you become distant from him you still regard him as your brother. That is, until he disappears without a warning, leaving all of you behind in the middle of the night without a trace.

This draws the ire of most of the gang, but you, Arthur, and a few select others seem to hold onto it longer than the rest. Luckily, though, even though it takes a village to raise a child, you have just that; the young boy is never left without a caring hand or a watchful eye. 

You remain by Abigail’s side as much as you can whenever you’re in camp, helping her care for Jack, trying vicariously through her to live out some semblance of your own child-bearing daydreams. 

You don’t hear from John for an entire year. 

During that time, Jack turns two, and you get to see even more of the American countryside than you’d ever thought you would. The lot of you bounce from state to state, stealing from the rich and just trying to survive. Your tentative friendship with Arthur turns into a reasonably close and trusting one. The two of you develop your unspoken understanding into a silent language that encompasses most of your interactions. He leaves you more of his little gifts every now and again: a new book on your birthday, a bouquet of lavender after the premiere of a new show, a little sketch of some bird in flight or perched on a post just because. And you do the same, patching up holes in his clothes without being asked, or sewing buttons back onto shirts or coats, a feather tucked into a sprig of wild sage and left on his side table. 

You garner a bit of attention from your performances - Barbarella does, anyway - and draw in increasingly larger crowds to your shows. 

You hear from your brother every now and again, giving him updates on what your stage persona is up to, lest someone uninvited get their hands on your mail. He writes you back, talking of family and the success of the ranch’s new initiative to breed racehorses, among other things. He doesn’t bother to write about your father - and you prefer it that way, mostly - until you go to retrieve your mail at the train station someplace in the middle of Missouri known as Blackhaw Springs.

When you receive your mail, it is addressed to you by name - by your _birth_ name, and you slice open the envelope with your knife as you quit the building. You scan the page, taking in the words penned by your brother’s well-practiced script, and find a quiet bench outside on which to rest. Much of the letter is the same as always, until you reach the latter half of the page:

 _Daddy passed away this morning.  
_ _I know the two of you were bitter strangers, but now that I am the patriarch of the family, I felt it my job to inform you such. He did not suffer, if it brings you any consolation. I do not expect that you will want to attend the funeral, and I will not fault you for your absence if you don’t. More than that, though, I do not expect that you would be able to get here in time for it, traveling all over creation as you are want to do. Should you decide to come home, if even for a short visit, your niece and nephews would love to meet you.  
_ _Wherever you are, and wherever you plan to go, I hope that you are safe. I love and miss you so, my dear sister, and even if I do not always understand or agree with this life you’ve chosen, I have learned - I think - to at least be proud of you for being so unapologetically yourself.  
_ _Yours always,  
_ _Jacob_

You read the words over, your heart sinking deeply into your chest. A strange emptiness rears its ugly head inside of you, weighing on you in a surprisingly heavy fashion.

He was gone. Your father was gone, and every far off daydream you’d scarcely had of the two of you mending fences had died with him. You would never truly know or love him now, and he would never truly know or love you. Though you suppose you don’t need him to - Hosea had effectively filled that role - it still would’ve been nice.

“Everything alright?” Arthur asks you, startling you a little. “Sorry,” he laughs. “You were takin’ a minute, so I figured I’d come check on ya.”

“I’m fine,” you make yourself say, but it comes out flat and unconvincing.

He eyes you patiently. “You sure?”

You start to lie again, knowing he’ll accept it if that’s what you insist on doing, but for some reason, you can’t come up with the words. Everything you think to say dies on your tongue, feeling as heavy as lead in your mouth.

“No,” you say finally, but it comes out as a bitter and breathless laugh.

“What’s goin’ on?” He asks you, shifting his weight and tucking his thumbs behind his belt buckle.

“Jacob says,” you say, your brows knitting together in confusion as you try to make sense of the reality of it. “Our father Is dead. He passed away.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, briefly dropping his gaze to his boots. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Me too,” you admit. 

He hums a thoughtful sound. “That’s surprisin’.”

“Ain’t it?” You say.

“How are you, uh,” he starts. “How are you feelin’ about it?”

“I’m not sure yet,” you tell him.

He’s quiet for a moment, scraping the knuckles of one hand against the stubble under his chin.

“C’mon,” he says finally, nudging his head to the left for you to follow. “‘S go get a drink. You can stew on it’ for a little while. How ‘bout it?”

“Okay,” you nod. 

At the saloon, you wait at a high-top table in the corner while Arthur retrieves a beer for himself and a glass of wine for you. The two of you share a comfortable silence as you both sip on your drinks, trying to find an explanation for the grief pulling at you. He stands to your left, leaning on his elbows against the wood of the tabletop as he observes the saloon’s patrons in contemplative quiet. You feel important, having been invited to have a drink with him, and though your father’s death does hurt, this simple gesture from Arthur feels familiar: it feels like he’s still trying to protect you, the way he’s done for the past few years. The way he’s done since you joined the gang.

In the warm light of the saloon’s oil lamps, he looks almost like he could be your guardian angel. As angelic as a hardened outlaw could, you suppose. You stare at the small diagonal scars just beside the dimple in his chin, wondering about the story behind them. 

If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that he put your chest alight. 

Being so near to him, especially in such a relaxed setting, makes you acutely aware of how lonely you feel. Not that your chosen family wasn’t enough company - they were, and you were eternally grateful that you no longer had to be alone. It was just that the feeling you got from being around Arthur was closer to longing than anything else, and you hadn’t come up with an explanation for it. It was a void you didn’t know how to fill, or even what to name. And you were afraid of what that meant. 

“How you doin’ over there?” Arthur asks you, taking another swig.

You’re pulled back to the present moment, sighing heavily.

“I feel… well, to be honest, I don’t feel much of anything. It’s just this… muffled fact that keeps getting hung up in my mind.” 

He listens to you carefully, nodding as you say your piece, and you try not to get lost in those intense, blue-green eyes of his.

“Shouldn’t I at least feel sad?” You ask him.

He shrugs, giving you a look of uncertainty. “Thought the two of you weren’t close.”

“We weren’t,” you acknowledge. “He was a mean bastard.” You take a sip of your wine.

“That don’t mean you can’t regret his passin’,” Arthur points out. 

You stare at him then, your brows pinching upwards as you struggle to grant yourself the permission needed to believe his words.

 _Regret._ Maybe that’s what it was that was eating away at you _._

“Maybe I just hate that we were never close. He never saw anything of himself in me, and I guess the feeling went both ways, ‘cause I never saw much of myself in him either. I mean, he loved us, I suppose. In his own way. But it was easier for Jacob to see that than it ever was for me.”

Arthur waits patiently for you to continue, watching you intently as you keep confessing what feels like a sin.

“My mother died when she gave birth to me and people always told me he was different after she passed. Like he thought all the good in the world died with her. I think he always blamed me for it and he just didn’t know it. And I guess I blame myself sometimes, too.”

“Hey,” Arthur says gently. “Women die during childbirth every now and again. I wish it weren’t but it’s just a sad fact of life. Just ‘cause your mama died bringin’ _you_ into this world don’t give your father the right to hold it against you.”

You nod as he speaks, trying to let yourself believe what he says. Trying to forgive yourself.

“So,” he clears his throat, moving on. “Are you gonna… y’know. Go home?”

“I don’t think so,” you shake your head. “Why? You want me to go home?” You grin wryly at him.

“No!” He starts, then quiets down. “Naw, I was… just wonderin’.” He rubs the back of his neck. "The funeral and all."

“No, I doubt I'd get there in time," you shrug. "You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy, Mr. Morgan,” you jest, lifting your glass to your lips.

“I don’t think Hosea’d allow me to keep drawin’ breath if I tried,” he jokes back.

“I think you may be right,” you grin unevenly. “Y’know, that man has been more of a father to me than -”

You catch a familiar face as your gaze sweeps across the saloon, and when you double-take to find it again, your mouth refuses to cooperate in letting the rest of your words out.

“Than your own father?” Arthur supplies, attempting to finish your thought. “Johanna?”

You can’t tear your eyes away from the man you see sitting across the saloon from you, currently nursing a glass of whiskey. You get goosebumps and your stomach churns as something in the back of your mind screams that you know him, but why? As you wrack your brain for the answer, the man reaches for his wallet, and it all comes flooding back to you.

Your stomach drops as you complete the realization of why you know this man, and you reach for Arthur, your fingers latching around his arm and catching him off-guard.

“Damn," he says, eyeing your hand. "Scared the Hell outta me, woman! What is it?” He inquires worriedly, following your eyeline. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s him,” you say in a hushed tone, your eyes blown wide beneath your narrowed brow. 

“Who?” Arthur asks. “That feller? Who is he?”

“That’s him,” you repeat. “He - Eliza -” You struggle to say her name.

You risk tearing your vision away from the man to meet Arthur’s eyes. He searches your face for what you mean. You watch the revelation come to fruition in his mind as his expression changes from not understanding at all to understanding quite well. He swallows hard, taking a step back and glaring at the stranger.

“You sure?” He asks in a hushed tone, his husky voice gone dark. 

“Pretty sure,” you nod, feeling the spark of an old rage in your veins begin to accelerate.

“Okay,” he says. 

“What do we do?” You ask, shifting uncomfortably in your stool. 

“We wait,” he says solemnly. 

You nod, a persistent gnawing feeling in your side. You don’t know what exactly Arthur intends to do, but whatever it is, you’re willing to follow his lead. The two of you bide your time, switching out what would be your next round of drinks for water so you can keep your clarity for the confrontation to come. Your knuckles turn white around the glass in your hands as you remember the day you first saw this man - such a _hateful_ day, and for what? He’d killed a woman and her infant child for no real reason, stealing their lives away like he owned them. It was always the same with men like this, men like Dalton. Power-hungry and never satisfied with whatever they got. Thinking they could walk through the world as they pleased, even if satisfying their immediate desires meant hurting others in cold blood. These kinds of men who would ogle you in the saloon, with God-knows-what going through their minds, following behind you in town only to turn tail when they saw the company you kept. It wasn’t every man - most of those you traveled with in the gang were enough of an exception to the rule - but it _was_ enough of them that you never felt truly safe out in the world on your own, and that was the problem.

You don’t realize you’re seething with rage until Arthur calls your name. 

“Johanna,” he says, the low tone of his voice nudging you out of your quiet inferno. “He’s goin’.”

It’s rare that he calls you by your first name; he usually opts for Miss Hawkins, either as a sign of respect or as an attempt to keep you at arm’s length, you’re not sure, but you hope it’s the former.

The man rises unevenly from his chair, the drink in his veins making him top-heavy, and he stumbles through the front doors of the saloon. Arthur eyes him through the window, putting some distance between you and the stranger before you start tailing him, then signals for you to follow when he makes a move for the door. You exit the saloon inconspicuously and see the man climb onto a black horse before steering it down the main street. You and Arthur climb onto your own mounts, retrieving them from the hitching posts in front of the saloon, keeping a safe distance behind the man. 

Once you’re out of town, the man spurs his horse into a canter, and you and Arthur follow suit, shadowing him as he pulls off the main road and up a hill. The sun dips below the horizon, starting to go dark as the night makes its way in. You’re led, ironically, to a small cabin in a carved out section of woods a safe distance from its adjacent cliff. You and Arthur watch from the woodline, just out of sight, as the stranger dismounts his horse, almost falling over when he does. He traipses up the steps and unlocks the door after fumbling with his keys. Once he finally gets inside, he shuts the door with an abrupt slam.

“I have an idea,” you say quietly. “Let me go in first.”

“What?” Arthur hisses. “You crazy?”

“I just wanna make sure it’s him,” you whisper. “So we don’t hurt an innocent man.”

“No,” Arthur shakes his head. “Ain’t lettin’ you go in there by yourself. Don’t want him gettin’ any funny ideas.”

“I don’t know if he’ll be as easy to talk to if you come in with me. You’ll be right out here if I get into trouble, right?”

“‘Course,” he nods. “But -”

“But nothin’,” you say. “I’ve got a gun, I can handle it. Give me five, ten minutes. I’ll see if he’s our man.”

Arthur frowns at you but he keeps his disagreement tight-lipped.

“Fine,” he says. “You holler for me at the first sign of trouble.”

“I will,” you promise. 

The two of you approach the house with caution, and Arthur braces himself against the wall just around the corner while you climb the steps to the porch and give a knock on the door. The stranger opens it slowly, the barrel of a pistol peering out at you from the crack in the door. You lift your hands in surrender and the man pokes his face out, his suspicious scowl morphing into confused interest.

“Well,” he says, giving you a sleazy grin. “Evenin’, ma’am.”

“Pardon me, mister,” you say, smiling nervously. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. It’s just that I’m tryin’ to get to town, but I think I took a wrong turn. I was hopin’ you could give me some directions if you know the way.”

The stranger quirks his brows up and hums a laugh at your apparent predicament.

“Well, sure,” he says, holstering his pistol and opening the door all the way. “I can give you directions.”

“Oh, bless you,” you say, beaming at him. “That would be wonderful of you.”

“Oh, it ain’t no big deal,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, his arm pressed to the wood above his head. “Anything for a pretty lady.”

You cover your face with your hand and laugh. 

“You look a little cold, though,” the man says. “Why don’t you come inside for a bit, warm up by the fire? I can give you those directions while you rest for a spell.”

“Oh,” you wave him off. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense, he says, gesturing for you to come inside. “I don’t mind one bit.”

“If you insist,” you grin, stepping inside after the stranger takes a step back and extends his arm as if to say, _ladies first._

The place is a pigsty to say the least. Discarded cans and bottles litter the floor and just about every surface in the place. Dirty clothes are strewn across the foot of the bed and the other furniture. The floor hasn’t been swept in weeks, and there’s a decent-sized bloodstain in front of the fireplace. You begin to think that, if Arthur weren’t waiting for you outside, you would probably _definitely_ die here.

The stranger clears a space for you at the round little table and gestures for you to sit.

You do, and he takes a seat across from you, his eyes raking over you hungrily. His greedy once-over combined with the stench of alcohol makes you feel sick.

“What’s your name, miss?” He asks.

“Johanna,” you say. “And yourself?”

“Richard.”

“Nice to meet you,” you nod.

“So, what’s a pretty young thing like you doin’ all the way out here?” He asks, leaning back in his chair.

“I was supposed to meet a friend in town tonight, but I got lost on the way and figured I’d see if anybody was home.”

“Must not be from ‘round here, huh?” He says. 

“No,” you say. “I just moved up this way from Colorado.”

“Well,” he laughs. “Small world. I spent some time down there a couple summers ago.”

“Really?” You grin. “Where in Colorado?”

“Newnan Bluff, mostly, but I did a stint at a cattle farm up near Redglen. Little minin’ town at the foot of the mountains. You know it?”

You nod. “I’ve been through Redglen,” you say. “Cute little place. One of my friends used to live there. Now that I think about it, are you sure we’ve never met? You look kinda familiar.” You give him a flirty smile.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he chuckles. “I woulda remembered a pretty face like yours.”

“Come on, Richard,” you say. “Think about it. You’re sure you’ve never seen me before?”

He scratches his head and squints at you as if he’s trying to remember.

“I’m fairly certain I’ve seen _you_ before,” you tell him. “And it was when I was in Redglen.”

His smile fades as he starts to study you more intently.

“You see, Richard,” you continue. “The last time I was in Redglen, I was visiting that friend of mine I mentioned. Only, she was dead when I arrived. And I saw the man what killed her come moseyin’ out of her house, stuffing what couldn’t have been more than $10 into his wallet. Soon as he saw me, he took off,” you say. “Can you believe that? The coward.”

Richard goes still, eyeing you nervously. You stand from the chair and pull your gun casually from the holster on your hip and point it towards him, pulling the hammer back.

“What I mean to say is, Richard,” you continue. “You didn’t remember my face. But I sure as shit remembered yours.” 

He nearly falls out of his chair when he stands up, and it clatters to the floor behind him as he draws his gun on you.

“Mr. Morgan,” you call without taking your eyes off of Richard. 

Richard glances apprehensively between you and the door when the sound of Arthur’s footfalls start up the porch steps. He throws open the door, holding his sawed-off shotgun in one hand and aiming it straight at Richard.

“Who the hell are you?” Richard says, the sweat on his forehead reflecting the light of the lantern on the table. “What do you want from me?”

“Put the gun down,” Arthur snarls, his voice low and threatening. “Make this easier on yourself.”

Richard switches his aim from you to Arthur and then back, seemingly weighing his options. 

“You are _tryin’_ my patience!” Arthur warns him. “Drop it, now!”

When Richard doesn’t comply, Arthur aims his gun to the left, firing a warning shot at the bed in the corner, the blast nigh-deafening as it shreds through the bedframe, mattress, and the blankets.

The stranger holds his arms straight up in surrender as he cowers in fear.

You move forward carefully and snatch Richard’s gun out of his raised hand. 

Arthur holsters his sawed-off and grabs Richard by the collar of his shirt, swinging him around before throwing him out the front door. Richard grunts when he lands against the porch, _hard_ , and Arthur delivers a swift kick to his jaw that opens a severe gash on the skin there. The force of the kick sends him floundering down the porch steps, and he hits every bump on the way down. The man groans, squirming slowly in the dirt and trying to get his bearings, but Arthur is on him in an instant, lifting him up by the scruff of his neck and half dragging, half carrying him over to the water trough off to the side of his hitching post. His horse neighs and rears up slightly in agitation and you carefully untether the animal, slapping it on the hindquarters and shouting for it to flee. It obeys, its hooves plodding through the dirt and the rocks as it trots away.

You plant yourself on the opposite side of the trough from Arthur as he forces Richard to his knees in front of it. You can see now that blood is pouring from Richard’s nose and mouth as he fumbles for purchase, his panicked fingers trying to free himself from Arthur’s grip. 

“What do you want?” Richard asks pathetically as he struggles to look up at you and Arthur.

“You killed an innocent girl,” Arthur growls. “You killed an innocent child.”

“Why’d you kill ‘em?” You snap, startling Richard. “You goddamn animal!”

“I don’t -” he struggles to speak. “I don’t know!”

“Think about it!” Arthur growls before he forcefully dunks the man’s head into the water and holds him there as he struggles. Bubbles storm up to the surface as the man thrashes, spilling water over the sides of the trough. No more than ten seconds later, Arthur pulls him back out, leaving him coughing and gasping for air.

“Why’d you do it?” Arthur barks, the hard lines in his face set into a terrifying look. 

“I needed the money!” He confesses, hacking up more water, now fully sobered up. “I owed somebody a lot of money and I just stumbled upon her! I was just tryin’ to rob her, I didn’t mean for her to die,” he says desperately.

“Bullshit!” Arthur roars. He delivers a blow to Richard's temple before he dunks him back under the water and holds him there for another ten seconds. When he pulls him out again, Richard is choking on the water in his lungs, coughing so hard you wonder if he’ll hack them right up. His face is a mangled mess of red and black and blue.

“I didn’t mean to shoot her, but she attacked me,” he struggles to huff out after a series of wheezes that turn his cheeks red. 

“Why’d you kill the boy?!" Arthur snarls, making Richard flinch. "He try to attack you too?” 

“I - I didn’t think anybody would find him!" Richard answers. "He woulda died without her, I figured it would be better than starving to death, better than suffering!”

“You’re sick,” you spit, your eyes starting to fill with furious tears. "You disgusting, pathetic _waste_ of a man!"

Richard turns his gaze to you then, looking fed-up with your insults.

“I knew I shoulda shot you, you crazy bit-”

Arthur doesn’t let Richard finish the thought. He dunks him into the trough again, but this time he holds him there until he stops thrashing, until he is no longer moving at all. 

Both of you are deathly silent on the ride back to camp. 

Your hands shake even as you grip the reins.

It isn’t until you hitch your horse at the edge of the site that you gain the courage to speak.

“Arthur,” you say, and he cranes his neck to look at you over his horse’s back. “Are you okay?”

He considers your question for a long while as the two of you brush down and feed your horses.

“Probably not,” he tells you, finally, with a shake of his head.

“What do you mean?” You ask.

“I don’t know,” he sighs with a shrug as he runs his brush down Boadicea’s neck. “Dutch always says revenge is a fool’s game. Don’t know about you, but I sure feel like a fool.” 

“We put a stop to him being able to hurt anyone else ever again. That was more than revenge. We got justice. For Eliza. For Isaac.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, the mention of their names putting a somber expression on his face.

“I hope you’re right.”

That night, Arthur sits at his side table, his forehead perched in the fingers of his left hand while he sketches in his journal with his right. He works patiently, the planes of his face illuminated by the lantern on the table, refining the loose outline of your portrait: another moment between the two of you he’d silently stolen and tucked away into the corner of his mind; saving your effortlessly alluring visage for the right time to mark it down in his journal so he could keep you, even in some small way.

He works to correct and depict accurately the proportions of your face; your lips drawn into a thoughtful frown, your green eyes downcast into the glass in your hand, your sharp eyebrows pinched downward in thought, and your sharp nose, wrinkled slightly off to one side.

He’d realized after standing so close to you that there were a myriad of small, barely-there freckles across your nose and cheeks, along with a small scar on your left temple. He remembers the one on your neck and wonders if the one on your face was put there by Dalton as well. 

He moves on to the rest of your portrait: your long, elegant fingers clutching the wine glass, and your tidy hair: a crown of two braids, tucked beneath that black hat of yours, the familiar strands that frame your face hanging delicately against your cheek. The high-necked cream-colored blouse underneath a soft green apron dress.

You’d been the catalyst to processing and properly mourning what was perhaps the most profound loss of his life. You were too good, too lovely, to think so well of him. It wasn’t fair to you that he felt this way about you. Not fair of him to desecrate the ground on which you stood just by longing to walk beside you. Not fair that this thing between you that began as something akin to hatred had grown into so much more than he ever thought it would. He’d sworn off all that foolish romance and love after Mary and after burdening Eliza with their son and losing them both. He couldn’t afford to be made a fool of again, to risk caring for you the way he wanted to. He’d learned the hard way that it would only put you at risk. He didn’t want to hurt you with the knowledge of his feelings, or hurt himself if they were unrequited. 

On the next page, beside your portrait, he begins to write.

_Killed the bastard that murdered Eliza and Isaac today._

_Miss Hawkins spied him across from the saloon and helped me hunt him down. I did not expect or intend for her to tag along, but she did it without asking or being asked. Their deaths must have hit her hard as well, though I can only imagine why. Perhaps it has to do with Dalton. Perhaps she saw something of her husband in Eliza's murderer and decided she should rectify it. Whatever the reason, she did not flinch when I took the man's life, and she did not look upon me as a monster after it was over._

_She has once again seen into the darkest part of me, and once again, has not yet turned away. I don’t know if that makes me lucky or if it makes her a fool, but maybe both are true in some capacity._

_She is something I don’t quite have the words for. Being around her puts me at ease, which is a feeling unfamiliar to me. I can only hope that I bring her the same comfort, though I very much doubt it. She has suffered enough at the side of violent men, and I do not intend to cause her more. I am glad to have at least been a small comfort to her today, after she learned about her father’s passing. Sometimes I think she’s always felt alone, even when she was surrounded by others. Sounded like her father was a frigid bastard, and I now understand why she took so quickly to Hosea. I find myself thinking wishfully that all of our quiet exchanges and the fact that she seeks out my company mean she wants me around as well._

_Sometimes I want to ask her why, tell her to run, for her own good, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it._

_Whatever the case, she seems inclined to believe in my best, which I am grateful for, but am fairly certain I do not deserve._

* * *

That night, you dream of fighting to your death on the bow of a sinking ship, a typhoon raging around you and soaking you to the bone through your clothes. Your long pirate’s coat billows around you as you swing your sword in an attempt to fend off the encroaching arms of a kraken, and you wake up just as you stare into its haunting maw, its jaws closing around you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially had [this version](https://youtu.be/ajZC1RZSR44) of "Fare Thee Well" in mind when I wrote this chapter, but then I found [this one](https://youtu.be/6wrgRSJ2Lx4), which turned into my headcanon of what Johanna's voice sounds like.  
> Thanks for reading. I appreciate y'all so much.  
> I commissioned a portrait of Johanna and Erebus by soazzar on tumblr (which turned out BEAUTIFULLY! I cried), which you can find [here.](https://soazzar.tumblr.com/post/639604073870589952/commission-for-giraffiqpark-hope-youll-like)  
> Also, let me know how you feel about the little banners and if you think I should add them to the start of every chapter or not n_n


	9. For a While

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Leaving it all unsaid  
>  Keeping it quiet instead  
> You know that I won't explain  
> Cause I've grown to need this pain  
> You tell me it's good for now  
> I'll heal but I don't know how  
> Safe in the way we touch  
> [But it hurts to feel this much](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8JGVR4IrxGw)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for brief descriptions of infant death, miscarriage, and infertility.

You don’t hear from John for an entire year.

When he returns, it happens on the heels of an announcement from Dutch, just after the gang settles in a copse of woods somewhere north of the San Francisco Bay. It isn’t easy for most of the gang to welcome him back, but it’s especially difficult for Abigail. She wants more from him than he is willing to give, and when he does give her the time of day, his actions and his words are incongruent with one another. Arthur laments on several occasions his frustration with this, telling you that he wishes John would “quit sayin’ one thing and doin’ another,” and you agree with him, though you are much less vocal about it. What you are vocal about when you and Arthur commiserate, however, is that John doesn’t understand your need for time.

“I can’t just up and forgive him, just like that,” you say, snapping your fingers. 

Arthur nods as you speak. 

Your heart broke for Abigail and Jack when John left, and seeing him back has brought to the forefront of your mind a lot of feelings you thought you had put to rest: namely, the long-passed frustration with your own father, and how he had abandoned you without doing it as concretely as John had. John’s always been a mess with words, especially when he tries to apologize to you, but you can’t bring yourself to want to discuss it face-to-face with him because the point is moot: he knows he did wrong, and though he fumbles every word of his apologies as soon as they pass over his lips, you remain frustrated with him, which seems to make him frustrated with himself. 

With time, though, like everything else, things change, and others learn to forgive John. Hosea, in his infinite wisdom, urges you to do the same, but you find it hard to tamper down that resentment that has festered inside you. Arthur understands, because of course he does; as a man who loved and lost his own women and children, you can only imagine how much it sickens him to see John blessed with the same thing, only for him to throw it all away. 

The two of you get the chance to talk about it more in-depth on an impromptu hunting trip that takes you to the coast. Satisfied with several furs and a collection of foraged herbs and other spoils from a day’s work, you let Erebus and Boadicea carry the two of you down to the ocean. The sky is solemn above you, with dark clouds churning overhead, as if rain is trying to pour, but it never quite does.

Your eyes had lit up as you’d watched the dark cobalt waves from the cliff’s edge, and paired with the breathless excitement in your voice, it had made it impossible for Arthur to tell you no when you asked to approach the water. You reach the sands first; Arthur follows your trail closely, pulling up beside you when you stop, your eyes trained straight ahead at the sea. Your eyelids fall closed as a blissful little smile creases your features. Your shoulders rise and fall as you breathe in the smell of the salt water, the wind whipping your hair around and threatening to take your hat right off your head, if not for the hand you’ve planted atop it.

“It feels like ages since I saw the ocean,” you tell him without looking at him, and he’s thankful for the lack of sun, as the cloud coverage keeps him from having to squint to see you clearly.

_And what a sight to behold,_ he thinks to himself as he tries to memorize the way you look right here, another quiet moment to keep for himself in the pages of his journal. 

“I’ve always read that the west coast is so much different from the east,” you remark, prompting Erebus forward with a gentle squeeze of your legs. Arthur does the same with Boadicea and the two horses fall into step together as you steer them diagonally towards the edge of the shore.

“That so?” Arthur asks.

You hum a sound of affirmation. “The ranch where I grew up is only about an hour’s ride from the Chesapeake Bay. Sometimes Jacob and I would sneak off early in the morning, take the day for ourselves. Pitch a tent and build a fire. We would race each other up and down the beaches,” a laugh creeps its way into your voice. “Finish the whole ordeal off with a picnic.”

Arthur tries to imagine it: a teenage version of yourself, your soft brown hair billowing out behind you as your horse gallops across the sand. He imagines you winning, of course, and never letting your brother live it down.

“You challengin’ me to a race, Miss Hawkins?” He asks you, a sly grin forming on his lips.

You turn to look at him, one brow quirked up in curiosity. 

“Only if you can stand losin’ to a woman of polite society, Mr. Morgan,” you say, taunting him good-naturedly. His chest stirs at the sight of the mischief dancing in your eyes.

“Naw, but that’s alright, because you’re gonna be the one losin’,” he replies, kicking Boadicea into a gallop and leaving you in the dust.

You gasp before letting out an incredulous laugh and spurring Erebus forward to catch up with him.

“No fair!” You admonish him, unable to contain your laughter. “We didn’t even decide on a finish line!”

“How ‘bout that tree up there,” he points to a large piece of driftwood lying in the sand a fair distance ahead of you. 

“Last one there’s a rotten egg!” You agree.

You catch up to him and, for a bit, the two of you are neck-and-neck as your horses huff and puff with effort, their hooves thundering against the damp sand. You start to pull ahead, though, the closer you get to your goal, and he tells himself it’s because he lets you, but he knows better. 

When you pass the driftwood, it’s almost like time slows down as you drop your reins and spread your arms out wide like a bird in flight, as if you’re ready to take off at any moment and leave this world behind. 

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen; a truth which both terrifies and excites him.

When time catches up with itself, he revels in the way your chest is heaving with mirth, the sound of your uncontained laughter as it carries on the wind. He feels such quiet adoration for the way your eyes are scrunched closed and your mouth wide open in a toothy smile, and to his surprise, he finds that he is laughing too.

The two of you slow your horses’ gaits gradually, and when you pull Erebus to a stop, Arthur rides Boadicea around you in a tight, slow circle, coming to a halt in front of you. He tries to hide his grin beneath the brim of his hat as you catch your breath, and pats Boadicea on the neck when she snorts and shakes her head.

Your voice is hoarse from laughter when you speak again. “Guess that makes you a rotten egg, Mr. Morgan,” you say, smiling proudly.

“I feel bad for you if you’re just _now_ figurin’ out I’m rotten, Miss Hawkins,” he laughs, prompting you to shoot him a chastising smile.

“Shut up,” you tell him, and he can’t help but grin. 

The two of you build a fire where the sand of the shore starts to fade back into hard stone and firm earth, and Arthur roasts a pheasant over the fire for you to share, as well as some other miscellaneous fixings: canned corn, and bread rolls sawn open with the serrated edge of Arthur’s knife and stuffed with slices of cheese. Boadicea and Erebus graze sleepily nearby, tied loosely off to a couple of thin trees. 

Where before, in your very early and terse days of coexistence, you and Arthur would occupy opposite ends of the firepit, you now occupy one side together, facing toward the water with only a couple of feet between you, your backs resting against a fallen tree.

Grease drips down your chin when you take your first bite of the bird - a leg for each of you - but you wipe it politely away with a handkerchief. The two of you eat your meal in relative quiet, save for the crashing of the waves and the calls and answers of the wildlife nearby.

You sigh contentedly once you’re done with your fine meal fairly-earned. “Thanks, Arthur,” you say, helping him tidy up the mess. “That was a nice change of pace compared to our usual fare.”

“I know that’s right,” Arthur jokes. “You’re welcome.”

The sun is just beginning its descent toward the edge of the world where the sky meets the sea, covering everything in a glowing yellow-orange hue as it shines mutedly through the clouds, and you and Arthur share a comfortable silence in the evening twilight. You watch the foamy waves roll in and out, engaged in the endless tug-of-war that has existed far before this moment and will continue to play out long after you are gone.

“John apologized to me again today,” you say after a while, your voice unaffected. “Asked me to talk to you for him.”

Arthur glances up from his journal to look at you. “And what’d you tell him?”

“Same thing I _been_ tellin’ him,” you answer wryly. “Sorry don’t sweeten my tea. He’s a grown man. He can talk to you his own damn self.”

Arthur laughs, a small puff of air through his nostrils, and returns to his work, his pencil scritching quietly away on the surface of the page.

“How are you doing?” You ask. “With all of that, I mean.”

Arthur considers your question for a moment before his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh. 

“He just don’t get it,” Arthur shakes his head slowly. “Thinks he can come back after leavin’ like he did, and everything’ll be just like it was before.”

You hum a thoughtful sound.

“And leavin’ Jack and Abigail… He’s lucky to have ‘em, and he just decides he wants nothin’ to do with ‘em. What kind of man just decides he gets to abandon his kin like that? Ain’t right.”

You frown, your eyes downcast. He knows you know exactly what he means.

“We was family - _brothers._ We grew up together. And he just…” His words fail him. You understood, because more than you listened to him, you _heard_ him. And he is too tired and wants too badly for the feeling of this good day to last. 

“Family's tough," you supply. "I’m sorry I brought it back up,” you say earnestly, causing him to look back over at you. “I just wanted to make sure you were doin’ okay. Dutch and Hosea put a lot on your shoulders. I figured I’d try and help with some of the weight.”

Your eyes meet his, an apologetic smile hanging on your lips. Your slightly-chapped, pouty pink lips. What would it be like to cover them with his own? To reach out for you and cradle your cheek as he breathed you in, good and truly? What would it feel like, he wonders, if the rush of your essence filled his lungs and his mind and dizzed him until he was drunk on it? 

He has to make himself look away before he goes and does something foolish that he can’t take back.

It’s not like you would reciprocate anyway. You were far too good for him.

“Ain’t no thing,” he tells you. “I’ll be alright, Miss Hawkins. Thank you, though.”

Before you can say anything else, he tucks his pencil behind his ear and shifts so he can show you the scene of the beach he’s copied into his journal.

You hesitate at first, averting your eyes as if you’re unsure. But then you look as he presses the book into your hands, and your eyes light up as you press a free hand to your chest in awe.

“Wow,” you breathe. “Arthur, this is beautiful.” 

He watches the way you pore over every little detail of the graphite replica of the landscape: the contours of the hills to the left, the bits of driftwood littering the sand, the scrubs of seaweed and the long grass growing up near the edges of the dirt. You, in all your adorable, lovely wonder of this drawing, completely unaware of the one that will follow: the look on your face hours before when you’d sat atop the cliff, admiring the dark and churning waters below. A piece of you to keep, a small way to honor what you had come to mean to him without having to make either of you face the reality of it.

You try to hide it, but he can tell how disappointed you are when it comes time to leave. The two of you return to camp long after nightfall and unload the day’s spoils onto Pearson’s wagon. Just before you slip off to bed, you bless him with another smile he will never feel he deserves, the words falling from your lips and making his throat constrict: _I had a good day with you. Thank you._ It’s what he writes beside your portrait that night, because even if he does not have the courage to tell you, he had a good day, too.

* * *

The people of San Francisco fall in love with Barbarella Blackbird, and your shows sell out night after night. Strauss rakes in plenty with his despicable loan-sharking. Hosea and Trelawny make out like bandits with their various schemes, and Dutch keeps Arthur and many of the other men busy with bank, stagecoach, or train robbery leads. Between your stage work and Arthur’s own busy schedule, the two of you are rarely ever at camp at the same time, and when you are, it’s only for a brief moment: a quick smile or a nod, a “howdy,” or an “evenin’.” Though they are less frequent, he doesn’t fail to leave you his little gifts, and neither do you; it says more than words could, keeping you smiling in the evening when you find time to rest. Summer rolls into fall, and as the leaves begin to change, you find yourself reminiscing on how much you yourself have changed. This happens most often after Javier finds some poor girl - Jenny - abandoned on the side of the road and brings her back to camp. She looks as if she’s never had enough to eat in her whole life, all skin and bones and wide, feral eyes. She mellows out the way you eventually did, and fits in well with the rest of the girls.

You think of how out of place you felt when you first joined up: you were so unsure of yourself and of your life’s direction, but time and distance brought with them clarity, and you know now this is where you’re meant to be. Unlike Jenny and the other girls, though, you remain hesitant to let yourself feel romantically inclined towards any of your fellow gang members. This is the one festering pit of self-doubt and fear left inside of you, and you suppose you are okay with that, most of the time. But, that gnawing loneliness only grows louder on nights like tonight: you sit alone by the fire, drowsy and worn out from a day of song and dance. Meanwhile, Karen sits propped on Sean’s lap, the two of them laughing amongst themselves as they down bottle after bottle of beer. It looks so easy for her to get lost in his embrace, like it comes so naturally to her, and you don’t understand why love has only ever felt difficult and forced for you. Dutch’s phonograph wails its warbling song into the night air and his arms find their home easily around Molly’s waist as he whispers sweet nothings to her while they dance in front of his tent. You like Molly, and the two of you get along well because of your similar backgrounds, but she has held on dearly to her ladylike tendencies, whereas you feel it only necessary to be prim and proper while standing in the spotlight. That isn’t to say that you’ll forego a skirt entirely, but pants are more functional, and wearing them was a fast way to identify disagreeable men, or keep them away from you entirely. Either way, it worked out for you. But you can’t help but wonder if your loneliness can be attributed to your inherent lack of desirability. You even feel lonely when John and Abigail fight - which is all the time - because it reminds you of the times you sat silently while Dalton berated you for your supposed misgivings. Because at least Abigail has someone to fight with, and perhaps if you had just been _enough,_ tried harder, fought louder, then Dalton would’ve been the man you needed him to -

“Evenin’, Miss Hawkins,” Arthur says, and you almost drop your stew. 

Arthur can’t help the laugh that escapes him when you fumble the bowl and end up splashing some of the contents of the stew onto your hands and pants. 

You wince from the heat and quickly press your lips to the skin where the drops of broth have spilled, sucking the liquid away.

“Damn, I’m sorry,” he chuckles, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief which you graciously accept. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

You set your bowl between your feet and start cleaning your hands off, unable to do anything but laugh off your embarrassment. “It’s alright,” you say, giving him a wry look. You dab at your hands to clean away the mess before you wipe off your pant legs. 

“Gonna go blind, you keep starin’ at the fire like that,” Arthur says, taking a seat on the stool to the left of your own. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah,” you say, picking your bowl back up. “Just thinkin’.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Arthur says, and your eyes flit up to him as you wrinkle your nose, trying to keep from smiling at his familiar dry attempt at humor.

You watch him take his hat off and prop it on his kneecap before lighting a cigarette. His sandy hair is shining in the firelight, swept back away from his forehead and neatly trimmed to a faded cut. His beard is also tidy, and you find those familiar diagonal scars on his chin as you watch him smoke. 

“Where do you get off to?” He asks after exhaling a puff of smoke.

“Hm?” You ask, not sure what he means. He offers you the cigarette and you take a pull on it before handing it back to him.

“Where do you go,” he says. “When you get stuck up there? That stubborn head o’ yours.”

“Lots of places,” you answer. 

“Like where?” He asks.

“Paris,” you say. “I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

He hums a laugh. “I hear they eat snails there.”

“Ew,” you laugh, scrunching up your face at the idea. “Guess I shoulda picked somewhere else.”

You share a look for just a beat as you share another drag of his cigarette and realize how thankful you are for him, for this moment.

He frequently finds ways to do that: finds you just when your thoughts start to snowball out of control, and stops you in your tracks. 

“Y’do that, from time to time,” he tells you, and you cock your head slightly as you exhale a thin stream of smoke from the corner of your mouth. 

“Daydreamin’ I guess,” you say, watching the firelight dance across his frustratingly handsome features. 

It’s a wonder he doesn’t also have someone to sit with by the fire the way Dutch and Molly do, the way Karen and Sean do. 

But then you remember the stories you’ve heard about Mary and what happened to Eliza. No wonder he didn’t seek romantic attention. Loving others only brought him pain and loss. 

* * *

Autumn stretches on, and Dutch meets a young man named Lenny in a bar, the two of them bonding over Lenny’s attempt to swindle Dutch at cards. Dutch finds it amusing instead of offensive, and praises Lenny’s initiative, encouraging him to join the crew. You’re particularly fond of the young man almost right away for his charm, quick wit, and optimism. He’s barely 18, but you get the feeling that he’s wise beyond his years. The west coast is a veritable paradise for the Van der Linde gang, but, the law is getting faster and stronger all the time, and after just five months in California, you’re forced to say goodbye to your beloved ocean when one of Dutch’s attempts to sell stolen merchandise goes bad and puts what feels like the whole state on high alert. Dutch makes it out of the deal gone bad, thanks only to the quick thinking of Micah Bell, a hotheaded outlaw with whom Dutch is immediately smitten. Micah rubs you the wrong way from the moment he steps foot into camp; the way he leers at all the women is eerily similar to the way a man you helped Arthur drown leered at you years ago, but since Micah saved Dutch’s life, you decide to let sleeping dogs lie.

Dutch and Hosea make the choice to move everyone to Montana to get the government off your trail, and you take the long way there through the Grizzlies Mountains. It’s rough terrain, but the lawmen and the bounty hunters don’t dare follow you there, and you find a safe place to settle before winter sets in: the abandoned remains of what looks like an old military fort. 

A few weeks into your stint in the Grizzlies, though, people start getting cabin fever, yourself included, and you don’t realize it until one day when you’re helping Arthur tote firewood to the main bunkhouse. You overhear some commotion as you set your bundle of logs down, and look up to find John and Abigail in another one of their shouting matches over by the chuckwagon. You stop, focusing your attention to them, and the sight of Abigail covering Jack’s ears with her gloved hands catches your eye. 

_He doesn’t need to hear this,_ you think, and exchange a look with Arthur before trudging over to retrieve the young boy. Arthur gives you a look that tells you he’ll follow your lead, and he trails behind you wordlessly.

“You an’ me is one thing,'' Abigail says pleadingly. “But will you at _least_ try to make an effort with the boy?”

“If it’ll shut you up, then perhaps,” John says with a frustrated huff. “But I didn’t ask for all this. Fatherin’ ain’t nothin’ I know about.”

“Here’s a hint: try actin’ like you ain’t a selfish, bloodthirsty moron.”

“Oh, you mean lie?” John asks dismissively.

“If actin’ like you care about your son means lyin’, John, then maybe you should just do us all a favor and be honest for once,” you say, cutting in. “Save ‘em both the trouble.”

You reach for Jack and he looks up at you with his too-familiar puppy-dog eyes as Abigail starts to hand him off to you. You give him a reassuring smile as you lean down to pick him up.

“And what would you know about it?” John asks you, crossing his arms. 

You take a protective stance in front of Abigail as you adjust Jack in your arms so he is resting comfortably on your hip. “Well, John,” you start. “Not much, outside of the fact that I’ve been more of a parent to your son than you ever have.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” John argues. 

“You didn’t have to,” you reply. “I did it ‘cause it was the right thing to do!” You start to walk away with Jack but John moves around to block you.

“What?” John gestures to you holding Jack in your arms. “You think I’m gonna hurt ‘im?” He asks and you roll your eyes at him.

“Not on purpose,” you counter, and those words set a hard line in John’s forehead. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asks, his voice growing in volume again.

“Watch your tone, John,” Arthur warns, giving him that look you’ve seen him give a hundred other men just before he put them in their place.

John gives him a harsh stare. 

“He don’t need to be here for this,” you say, gesturing between John and Abigail. “Y’all wanna dish it out, you do it away from the boy.”

You can hear Jack sniffling now, with his head resting on your shoulder, and you adjust him on your hip again as you swivel around to face Arthur. You give Arthur a questioning look, asking him with your eyes if he’ll take Jack from you, and he does. You pass Jack to him, the action as natural as breathing, and Arthur carries him effortlessly towards the house with Abigail in tow.

“I get it, Johanna,” John says once they’re out of earshot. “I know you’re still pissed at me for leavin’, but that don’t give you the right to act like you know what’s best for me or my son.”

You scoff. “You _just_ said you don’t know the first thing about fatherin’,'' you counter, letting yourself get loud now that Jack is gone. “He’s only your son when it’s convenient for you. Just ‘cause I ain’t his parent don’t mean I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Why would you know what you’re talkin’ about? You ain’t got any kids of your own,” John says, matching your volume and shaking his head as he holds his arms out. 

That one stings like a thorn catching in your side. “What’s your point?” You ask, erupting so abruptly that you see him visibly startle. “You sayin’ I gotta be a doctor to know you shouldn’t stick your hand into a fire?”

Before John can answer your question, you feel a cautious hand on your shoulder, and when you snap your eyes to the left to find its owner, you’re met with the sympathetic gaze of Hosea. 

“John, she has a point,” Hosea says politely. “Shouldn’t fight in front of the boy if you can help it. Now, let’s everybody cool off.”

John sighs and shifts his weight, his lips pressing together into a firm line.

“C’mon,” Hosea tells you, and you let him pull you away. “Take a walk with me.”

You shoot John a vicious look as you leave him standing at the chuckwagon, and reluctantly follow Hosea across camp, imagining that you’ve got steam rising off of you from how angry you feel.

To your surprise, Hosea leads you to the barn, and into the stable where his horse, Silver Dollar, is kept. You prop yourself up against the stable door and watch as Hosea drapes his saddle blanket over the stallion’s back. His silence prompts your guilt to start gnawing at you, and you start to over apologize for arguing with John before he cuts you off.

“I’m gonna head out for a few days,” Hosea says as he fastens his saddle to Silver Dollar’s back, and you quirk up an eyebrow at him. “Been wantin’ to go on a fishing trip up in these parts for a while now. Supposed to be some huge sockeye in this region. You wanna come with me?”

“Of course,” you say, a grin creasing your expression. “I’d love to.”

“Good,” he says, smiling earnestly at you. “Seems like you could use some time away. I know I could.”

You feel the fire in your veins dying down from his willingness to let you off the hook so easily. 

It'd be good to spend some time with Hosea again. It’s been too long.

“Why don’t you pack up and meet me at the front gate, and we’ll head out? Still got plenty of daylight left for travel.”

You do as he suggests, but Arthur stops you in the main hall of the bunkhouse on your way out.

“Headin’ out?” He asks.

“Hosea invited me to go fishing,” you answer.

Arthur chuckles. “I guess he didn’t wanna clean up after you if you ripped John’s head off.”

“I guess not,” you agree.

He walks with you toward the door but Abigail stops you in the foyer.

“Johanna?” She says, getting your attention.

You turn to her expectantly.

“Wanted to say thank you,” she says. “And you, Arthur. For steppin’ in. You’re right. About the boy. I'm gonna try to do better.”

“Of course,” you tell her, giving her a reassuring look.

She leaves you and Arthur standing there in the foyer, and you turn to him as he clears his throat awkwardly.

“Y’all be safe out there,” he says.

“We will,” you nod. “See you in a few days.”

“Alright,” he says. 

You adjust your bag over your shoulder and before you can overthink it, you decide to do something brave: you approach to hug him and he lets you. He carefully wraps his arms around you as you press your cheek to his chest. He’s warm and solid, and he smells like fresh-split timber.

What you wouldn’t give to stay like this for just five minutes longer.

“See you soon,” you say.

“See you soon,” he repeats quietly.

You let each other go and you give him a shy smile as you leave, wondering if the color in his face is from the cold or from your embrace.

* * *

You and Hosea spend the latter half of the day on horseback as you traverse the mountains. You pull your lanterns out once the sun sets, the orange lights bouncing in the shimmering snow all around you. Finally, you settle down close to a partially frozen-over lake, pitching your tents while Hosea gets the fire going.

Fishing’s never been your strong suit, but you give it a good few hours when Hosea wakes you bright and early the next morning. He’s good company and he has almost encyclopedic knowledge of fish and how to catch them, so you mostly just listen patiently as he talks enthusiastically about it all. He’d been right about the sockeye - he reels in several of the slippery, red fish, each of them fairly massive. You only manage to catch two all day, but Hosea still cheers you on regardless. That afternoon, he teaches you how to clean and gut them, and the two of you have a hearty meal of salmon for dinner that night. You’re staring at the stars overhead when he speaks up suddenly.

“Johanna,” he says, getting your attention. 

“Mhm?” You hum, looking in his direction.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he mentions.

“What is it?” You ask, now feeling your worries begin to bubble up inside your stomach.

“Well, it’s just that you seem to be havin’ some trouble forgivin’ John,” he says.

You resist the urge to sigh. “I just need time, Hosea,” you say, looking down to your hands as you fidget with your nails.

“I know that, dear,” he says patiently. “And I can see you’re tryin’.”

“Can you?” You ask wryly. You hadn’t really been giving it a conscious effort. Leave it to Hosea to believe in your best.

“I can at least see that you’re not puttin’ effort into holdin’ onto your animosity,” he clarifies. “Unlike Arthur.”

“Ah,” you say. 

“Maybe it’s none of my business, but… well, there’s no question why Abigail would still be angry with him. But I didn’t think the two of you would have such a hard time with it.”

You keep eye contact with him as he speaks, squinting at him as you try to discern what he means.

“Unless there was a specific reason you were holdin’ a grudge, other than the obvious,” he continues.

“I won’t speak for Arthur,” you say. “That’s his business. If you wanna ask him the same question, maybe he’ll tell you.” There was no way you were speaking a word of Eliza and Isaac without Arthur’s permission, even to Hosea. It was his story to tell, should he decide to tell it.

“Of course,” Hosea nods. “I understand.”

“All I can say is, I think John throwin’ his family away made some old wounds raw again for Arthur and me.”

Hosea thinks this over for a moment, smoothing his fingers over his chin, his features glowing orange in the firelight. “I’m not askin’ you to tell me if it’s gonna be tough to talk about. You know that.”

“I know,” you nod. 

“You can talk to me about anything that’s on your mind,” he says. 

“I know,” you smile gratefully at him. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

You pause to gather your thoughts, and Hosea doesn’t seem to mind how long it takes. You’d gone over it again and again with Arthur and with yourself and had come to the same conclusion: that John was acting ungratefully. But _why_ did you feel that way in the first place? Perhaps it was jealousy. You feel silly and childish for that, and it takes you several minutes to make yourself say it out loud.

“Some of it has to do with my father,” you admit. “And… other parts of it have to do with Dalton.”

“I figured as much,” Hosea says, concern pinching his brows together.

“He… we… Well, I think children are an incredible blessing. If they’re what you want out of life.”

“Sure,” Hosea says. “Anyone can see that in the way you act with Jack,” he continues, one corner of his mouth turning up.

“And I’ve always wanted a big family. I think my daddy wished there had been more of us. I got my big family when I joined up with y’all,” you grin at him briefly. “But… I’ve always wanted my own children.”

“Can I ask what’s stopping you?” He inquires.

You take another moment to find the right words to answer his question, but you fumble them when it comes time to speak. “Kinda hard to have children when you’re afraid of… well…”

Hosea gives you a few beats of silence before he prompts you to continue. “Afraid of what?”

You cover your face with your hands. “I feel so foolish - I don’t want to say it.” But then you do. “Of men, I guess. Of… bein’ intimate with them.”

You can’t bear to look at him. How embarrassing.

“I’ve learned that the one good thing about fears is you can face ‘em. Move past ‘em. On your own time, of course.”

You imagine yourself as a small coyote, backed into a corner and ready to bite. “What if I don’t want to?” 

“Well, I don’t guess you have to. You might never be ready. And that’s alright too,” he tells you. “But I think you’ve made progress on that front without even realizin’ it.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, your nerves hammering against the insides of your ribcage.

“Well, what about Arthur?” He supplies.

You blush, and when you speak, your voice feels awfully papery. “What about him?” 

“I don’t know, the two of you seem close,” he says knowingly, and your stomach twists itself into a knot.

“I mean -” you stutter. “He’s - we’re friends, but…” You move your jaw around as you try to form words from the stammering mess currently falling from your mouth. “Arthur would never…”

Hosea gives you a penitent look. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” he says earnestly. “You know the old adage about saying never though.”

You clear your throat. What was he getting at? Arthur couldn’t possibly feel the way Hosea was implying he did. You were damaged goods, you were _barren_ , and he deserved more than that. More than you.

And besides, you weren’t even sure _you_ felt that way about him in the first place. Not that you’d be able to recognize it if you did. All you knew about romantic love, you’d learned from Dalton, and according to the words of Miss Collins, that _wasn’t_ love. It was ownership. It was a disease-addled tyrant poorly disguised as love.

Whatever you feel for Arthur, you don’t even know what to call it.

You decide to move on.

“Anyway, there’s also the problem of, well… I don’t think that I -'' You struggle to get the words out as you gesture to your body. “Physically, I mean.” 

You’re silent for a long while.

A chill blows across the land, gathering flakes of snow in its arms and distributing them in new places among the trees and the slushy edges of the lake. You shiver in its wake, adjusting your scarf around your face.

Hosea waits patiently for you to continue, letting you tell your tale at your own pace. 

“Dalton and I tried. And when it finally happened…” you trail off, and your hand goes unconsciously to your abdomen. “The baby came too early. It didn’t survive.”

Hosea reaches over and takes your hand in both of his and squeezes gently. Your throat threatens to close up and you have to shut your eyes against the constricting feeling of anguish welling in your chest.

“I’m very sorry, dear,” Hosea tells you.

You shake your head at him and smile, trying to convey that it’s not a big deal, but he remains unconvinced. “It was a long time ago now,” you say dismissively, and your voice cracks.

“That doesn’t mean it stops hurting.” 

You look him in the eye, and your breath hitches as you try to stifle a sob. “I don’t hate John,” you admit. “I know we all have to do what we think is right for us.”

“But for him to be blessed with a family just to abandon them,” Hosea supplies. “I understand, dear. It’s alright,” he tells you. 

You swipe gently at your eyes with your sleeves and clear your throat while Hosea massages the spot between your shoulder blades. His kindness is a stark reprieve to the hurt in your heart, to the paralyzing trauma that you carry with you every day. How would you have made it this far without him? Without Arthur? Without the rest of your family, as abrasive and rough around the edges as they could get? 

You think of Miss Collins, and how you might not have gotten through your marriage to Dalton without her. She had always been so kind to you, so supportive in any way she could be. Especially after the death of your child. She’d cradle you in your bed while you wept, stroking your hair as you lay there numbly, and holding you steady when you broke down crying once more. You imagine that, if your mother were alive, she would have acted the way Miss Collins had, and you wonder if you’ll ever see her again.

Perhaps you _did_ know what love was supposed to feel like after all. The common denominator of all these good memories of your friends and family is the feeling of hope, of warmth and stability, of the dandelion in the spring, growing back against all odds and all attempts to cut it down. All at once then, you begin to understand that your continued existence is nothing more than your choice to survive, a decision afforded to you by the collective efforts of those who have loved you along the way each and every time you’ve had to decide it. You _had_ learned to love and be loved, just not the way you had expected.

“Thank you,” you say finally, when your voice returns to you.

Hosea gives you a reassuring look as he passes you a handkerchief. “Of course. You know, my wife, Bessie - God rest her soul - we tried to have children for many years.”

“You did?”

“Yes,” he confirms. He gets a wistful look on his face. “But it never happened. If I recall right, the doctor said she was suffering from infertility. Broke her heart. Broke mine too. She blamed herself for it, but I knew it weren’t her fault. It was beyond our control.”

You nod. You’d heard Hosea talk about Bessie on a few occasions - mostly around the fire on nights when he was feeling nostalgic - and every time he did, he spoke about her as if she’d put the stars in the sky. Hearing him talk about her now, it makes it easier, knowing that someone you love has dealt with the same problem as you. Knowing that, even if you ever found the strength to love again, perhaps love could be enough. If Hosea could be who he was - kind and warm yet firm and unfaltering - and love Bessie as completely as he did, even without children of their own, perhaps it could happen for you too. It makes the shame smaller; shrinks it, if even just mildly.

“She would’ve loved you,” Hosea says then, and your heart leaps into your throat at the relaxed confidence in his voice. 

“I wish I could have met her,” you say as you dab the handkerchief at your eyes, prompting him to smile even wider.

“Me too,” he tells you.

“Thank you, Hosea,” you say. “You’ve always been there for me.”

“You deserve it,” Hosea says.

You try to let yourself believe it.

The two of you spend another couple of days in the wilderness, fishing your way up the river until you reach the bottom of a waterfall. You set up snares along the bank as you go, and on your third day, you decide to go hunting, and you start your morning by checking your first set of snares from the days before. You find a rabbit in one set along the riverbank, and take it back to camp before moving on to the outer perimeter of the waterfall. It’s pretty routine for you, so you zone out a little as you set them, thinking of what Arthur might be up to or how best to move on with your tense relationship with John. 

You also think more about what Hosea meant about your relationship to Arthur while you hide and wait for game. What was Arthur to you? An adversary once. At first. Then, a tentative stranger. A friend. And you’re sure you were his, after what you had been through together. After years of unspoken conversation, conducted through the medium of your gift-giving. But was that all you were? 

After a good few hours, a herd of deer comes through, and you look through the scope of your hunting rifle at them. You take aim at a small buck and watch its tail twitch as it cautiously steps through the snow. You think a quiet prayer of thanks to the animal before you squeeze down the trigger.

The gunshot echoes through the woods around you, sending perched birds flying away into the sky as they call out their startled sounds. The buck slumps to the ground as the members of its herd dash away in a panic, and after a moment you come out of hiding, glancing around to make sure it’s safe before you approach the deer’s corpse. You lead Erebus over to it and give a pull on his reins in the way you’ve trained him to kneel down, and he does, pressing his front knees to the snow and lying down. You retrieve the deer, lifting with your legs, and set it down across Erebus’ back, behind your saddle. Once you’ve finished tying it down, you give your horse another pull on the reins so he stands back up. He gives a shake and a puff of air through his nostrils when he does, and you pat him on the neck encouragingly before you start to lead him away. 

You start back toward camp, checking your snares as you go, but you come upon one that looks unfamiliar, and in a place you don’t remember setting any. There’s a squirrel caught in it though, so you collect it and tie it off to your saddle before you keep going. 

The next snare you come across looks the same as the last in that it’s unfamiliar, which puts you a little bit on edge. Surely you and Hosea had to be the only ones up here. You glance around out of nervous habit, but you don’t sense any immediate danger. You kneel down to inspect the trap, but when you do, you hear a gun cock somewhere behind you, and you instinctively draw your revolver as you whirl in the direction of the sound. There, on the business end of the barrel of your Schofield, stands a very burly, very handsome dark-skinned man with bold features and long, dark hair. A gnarly scar stretches up across his right cheek. He’s glowering at you, his dark eyes full of concentrated, quiet anger.

“You the one been stealin’ from me?” He says, and his voice rumbles through you like low, far off thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, cowpokes.  
> Apologies for this one being a little late. I had planned to post it sooner, but it just wasn't up to par, so I spent a little extra time on it.  
> Thank you for reading, and thank you so much to my faithful, regular commenters. Y'all are the best. <3


	10. The Trouble With Wanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Always on my mind  
>  Always alone  
> You could be miles and miles away  
> But somehow you're close  
> If I can't have the cake  
> And I can't eat it too  
> I guess the sound of your voice and the ache  
> [It'll just have to do](https://youtu.be/PNEnvoloZQY)_

The stranger scowls at you and you look down the barrel of his sawed-off shotgun.

 _You the one been stealin’ from me?_ What was he talking about?

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” you say, trying to keep your voice from trembling as you set your jaw and narrow your brows, putting on the emotional mask of indifference you always wear during jobs or things that would otherwise terrify you.

When you speak though, his expression shifts almost imperceptibly: his furrowed brow lets up just slightly, and his eyes travel briefly across your whole form.

“Well?” You ask. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to be a woman,” he says then, and you roll your eyes. 

“Most men never do,” you say flatly. “You gonna tell me what I’m supposed to have stolen from you or are we just gonna stand here like this until our arms get tired?”

“You’ve been stealing from my traps,” he elaborates after a beat of silence, nodding his head towards the squirrel tied to your saddle. He then points to the gun slung over your shoulder. “And scaring off every animal for miles around with that rifle of yours.”

You realize now why those snares didn’t look familiar. They didn’t belong to you. You just dumbly assumed they did.

“Well,” you start. “I’m sorry for stealin’ from you. I didn’t mean to. I thought the snares were mine.”

“You didn’t think maybe you weren’t the only one up on this mountain?” He asks.

“I did,” you answer. 

“How about the fact that they didn’t look like yours? Every trapper I’ve ever known has different-looking snares.”

“I thought about that too, but I was daydreamin’ a little when I set mine, so I thought maybe I just forgot what they looked like.”

“Shouldn’t daydream out here,” he says. “Liable to get snuck up on.”

“Evidently,” you reply. You then spy the bow slung across his body. “Sorry about scaring away the game. I’ve never known any other way.” You shrug the shoulder that’s holding your rifle.

“Everything alright here, Johanna?” 

Hosea.

The tension in your jaw relaxes.

You and the stranger both turn in Hosea’s direction as he comes slinking out from between a couple of trees to your right. He’s got his Lancaster repeater trained right on the strange man, and he’s approaching at a cautious pace.

“Everything’s fine,” you answer, still pointing your gun at the stranger, who is now aiming at Hosea. “It’s just a misunderstanding.”

The stranger’s eyes flick to you as he scrunches his brow in thought.

“A misunderstanding?” Hosea asks. “About what?”

“I’ve accidentally stolen from our friend here,” you say. “Thought a few of his snares were mine.” You point to your saddle. “And I’ve been scaring away all the game with my rifle.”

“Well then, it sounds like we owe you a meal,” Hosea says to the stranger, perking up a little.

"I don't need charity," the stranger says gruffly. "I just want what's rightfully mine."

"No charity," Hosea says. "I wanna give you what's yours, but I'm afraid I've already cooked it up. Unless that little squirrel is enough to tide you over."

The stranger doesn't budge. 

"It was an honest mistake,” you tell the stranger. 

“This is our wrong to right, if you’ll allow us. You wanna put that gun down? We can talk this out.” Hosea lowers his repeater and holds his arms out as if to signal surrender. You don’t lower your gun until the stranger does. He lowers the shotgun into the holster strapped to his leg and you replace your revolver in the holster on your hip.

“Good,” Hosea says, approaching the man with an outstretched hand. “What’s your name, stranger?”

“Charles.” He hesitates for a beat before shaking hands with Hosea.

“Got a last name, Charles?” Hosea asks.

“Smith.”

“Good to meet you, Mr. Smith. Name’s Hosea Matthews.”

Charles looks to you then, after you extend your hand to him.

“Johanna Hawkins,” you say, and he glances at your hand before he decides to shake it.

* * *

When you smile up at him, the expression is surprisingly genuine. He takes your hand, dwarfed by his own, and gives a firm but brief squeeze. 

“So, Mr. Smith, how about that meal?” Hosea asks, and Charles considers him for a moment.

“Pretty trusting,” Charles says, looking between you and Hosea. 

“Not so much,” Hosea says. “I trust my gut, and my gut’s tellin’ me you must be decent if you didn’t just shoot her on the spot. Or sneak up and overpower her.”

Charles makes a thoughtful sound.

“What do you say?” Hosea asks.

“Sure,” Charles says finally. What could it really hurt? If this was a trick and you two were planning on offing or robbing him, Charles doesn’t doubt he’d be able to take both of you with one hand behind his back. And if it wasn’t, he’d be getting a meal out of it, and potentially some new allies.

He’d been a lone wolf for so long, but seeing you there in the snow… it was just more evidence that perhaps it was time for a change.

He whistles for Taima, and as his mare plods over, he watches you approach your own horse. You’re smiling sweetly at the beast, and you reach into your saddlebag for a beet before offering it to him. He devours it with a loud series of crunches. You smooth a gloved hand over his face before you climb up into the saddle. 

When Charles woke up this morning to track down his snare thief, he wasn’t expecting to find someone like you. And what a strange thing to find. You, with your shining emerald eyes and your apparent survivalist skills - not to mention your confidence with a gun. 

_“You’re gonna have to be more specific,”_ you’d said, seemingly unperturbed by his hulking stature or the barrel of his gun. Unmoved by the fact that he’d snuck up on you.

Even if you had stolen from him, and that would usually be grounds for his unforgivable ire, he wants to believe you when you say it was an accident. But he’s been burned before.

“She’s beautiful,” you say, nodding to Taima and pulling Charles from his thoughts.

“Thanks,” he says.

He expects you to try to force more conversation, but, to his relief, you don’t, instead giving him a warm look before turning your gaze back to the road ahead.

The two of you follow on your own mounts behind Hosea, now seated on his silver stallion, silence floating between you. When you reach your camp, Hosea dismounts first, followed by Charles and yourself. Charles watches you untie the squirrel from your saddle before offering it to him.

“It really was an honest mistake, Mr. Smith,” you say earnestly. “I’m sorry.”

He takes the squirrel from you without a word. He just nods in acknowledgement and watches you walk toward the campfire. 

He keeps his distance from you and Hosea as he works on skinning and cleaning the squirrel, and doesn’t approach the fire himself until the squirrel is ready to roast. He catches a whiff of the stew hanging over the fire as he roasts the squirrel, and his mouth waters. The three of you eat in relative silence, until Hosea finally speaks up.

“So,” he starts, and Charles lets his eyes drift up to him. “How’s the stew, Mr. Smith?”

“Fine,” Charles answers. 

“You live up in these parts or somethin’?” Hosea asks.

“Why?” Charles replies.

“It’s just kind of remote. We weren’t expecting to see anyone else up here.”

“I could say the same about the two of you.”

“Very true,” Hosea says. 

“I don’t live up here,” Charles admits finally. “Just passin’ through.”

Hosea makes a thoughtful sound. “Us too. Well, we’re on a little bit of a vacation.”

“Interesting place for a vacation,” Charles says flatly.

“Took what we could get,” Hosea says. “Had to get poor Johanna away from the house before cabin fever got her and she killed some poor fool.” Hosea chortles.

Charles can’t help the corner of his mouth that turns up at that, and he looks at you then to find you smiling wryly as you roll your eyes. What was Hosea trying to convey? That there were people who’d come looking should they fail to turn up?

“Wasn’t gonna kill him,” you say, stirring the last bits of stew in your bowl around.

“Oh, I saw the look in your eye,” Hosea says.

“How?” You ask. “You were standin’ behind me!” You laugh, bright and genuine.

Hosea waves you off. “Well, anyway, we would’ve preferred California, but we stirred up some trouble down there that we didn’t want followin’ us.”

Charles squints, trying to discern a possible ulterior motive there. Trying to say that you were dangerous? That you could hold your own?

“Trouble?” He asks.

“Let’s just say the law out that way, well, they don’t like us very much,” Hosea says casually.

Charles hums a soft noise of affirmation. Why would Hosea trust him with something like that? Knowledge that could bury him, should Charles decide to act on it?

He wonders about it silently for the rest of the meal, until Hosea sighs, breaking the silence.

“Well, Johanna, I think it’s ‘bout time we headed back,” Hosea suggests and you nod. “Mr. Smith, do you have somewhere to stay? It’s been fairly cold this year.”

Charles looks at him, one eyebrow quirking up. Why did he care? “I’ll be alright.”

“We have room enough if you’d like to winter with us, back with the rest of our group. Or even if you’d just like a few nights in a real bed.”

What a suspicious offer. “No, thank you,” Charles says. He didn’t need anyone. He had weathered plenty of cold Decembers on his own.

But then again, wasn’t he tired of always fending for himself? If this offer was as genuine as Hosea was trying to make it sound, did the benefits outweigh the inevitable costs? He’d have somewhere to rest his head every night, people to watch out for him, an assumed group effort’s worth of fresh and constant supplies. He’d probably have to deal with noisy folks around the fire, but maybe it could be worth it.

No. No point in chancing it. The odds of this world were rarely in his favor. Better to try and stay ahead of the curve.

“Suit yourself,” Hosea says kindly, accepting his answer. “Sorry again about the misunderstanding,” he chuckles. “I hope we could make it up to you.”

“Sure,” he says. “I appreciate it.”

He rests by the fire a little longer while you and Hosea pack up, and he’s caught again in that riptide of conflict in his mind: one part of him telling him he should come with you and Hosea, and the other telling him it would only end poorly. Why should he trust two complete strangers? Why should he trust them not to trick him, to try and rob and kill him? Lure him back to their hideout just so they could try to overpower him and do unspeakable things to him before putting him out of his misery?

As if the universe senses his questions, he hears the start of a song, lilting on the cold wind and disarming his worried mind.

He’s kneeling down at the water’s edge to refill his waterskin when it happens, and he looks over his shoulder as he stands up to find you singing pleasantly as you pack. It’s not a performance, but a quiet little moment of music to occupy your mind while you work. He recognizes the melody right away, however, and though you’re really only singing it loud enough for your own ears to catch, his mind latches onto it.

 _Will the circle  
_ _Be unbroken?  
_ _By and by, Lord, by and by  
_ _There’s a better home awaiting  
_ _In the sky, Lord, in the sky_

It’s a religious song his father used to sing on occasion.

All at once, his resolve breaks, and he starts to realize he doesn’t want to never see you again. He wants to spend more time in the sanctity of your voice, to get to know the mirth behind those gemstone eyes of yours. He wants to experience firsthand more of your sincerity and generosity. He wants to damn all reason and come with you, at least for a little while.

He approaches Taima as you are tying your bedroll to your saddle, still humming away. You give him a shy smile and he feels his heart begin to melt.

“You… have a lovely voice,” he says, and your eyes widen slightly before you give him a toothy grin.

“Thank you,” you say.

“My father used to sing that,” he adds. “Every now and then.”

“It’s one of my favorites,” you tell him. 

He watches you for a moment longer before he finally decides to take his shot. “So, this… group of yours,” he says.

“Did you change your mind?” You ask, quirking up a brow.

“Maybe,” he answers. “I don’t really have anywhere else to go. And I can’t say the idea of sleeping in a real bed isn’t appealing.”

“Alright,” you say amusedly. “You ever heard of the Van der Linde gang?” You ask him.

“Can’t say that I have,” he answers. 

“Well, that’s who we are. Who we’re part of anyway. If you can look past that, you’ll fit right in.”

“I’ve been on the run for a long time,” he tells you, prompting a sympathetic frown from you. “I can guarantee you the US Government doesn’t like me any more than I would guess it likes your gang.”

“Then you will fit in for sure,” you say before turning to call for Hosea over your shoulder. “Mr. Smith has changed his mind.”

“Has he?” Hosea asks. He steers his horse around so he can face the two of you. “Well, good.” He pulls out his pocket watch and checks it. “We should get there by midnight if we leave now. Let’s get a move on.”

* * *

When you make it back to the fort, you pass Lenny on your way in, to whom Hosea announces your arrival.

“Welcome back, y’all,” Lenny says, grinning fully. He holds his lantern up to get a better look at Charles. “Who’s your new friend?”

“This is Mr. Charles Smith,” Hosea says, holding out one hand to him. “He might be stayin’ with us for a while.”

“Good to meet you,” Lenny says to Charles as you pass. “Now y’all get inside, it’s freezin’ out here!”

You and Hosea show Charles to the stables and drop off your horses. Hosea asks you to show Charles where to settle down for the night and you start walking toward the main bunkhouse as Hosea steals off to go find Dutch. No doubt he wants to discuss your new friend. 

You’d been hesitant about Charles initially, as you were about most men at first, but you trusted Hosea almost implicitly. He usually had a superb judge of character, so if he trusted Charles, that was enough for you. Something about the man was alluring; he was mysterious and quiet, and his deep voice was soothing yet stirring all at once.

Once you’re inside the main bunkhouse, you grab some spare bedding from a closet and lead Charles down the hall, but when you round the corner, you accidentally barrel right into someone’s chest and almost fall over.

Muscular arms steady you and put you upright, and you look up into the startled face of Arthur.

“Nice to see you again, Miss Hawkins,” he says wryly.

“Arthur,” you laugh, blushing at his closeness and at your fumble. “I’m so sorry,” you laugh nervously.

He lets go of you and hands you the rolled up blanket you dropped. “No harm, no foul,” he says with an understanding smile. 

You get lost in him for a moment; he’s wearing nothing but his burgundy union suit - which is unbuttoned down to the middle of his sternum - and a pair of black pants. He smells like the beard oil you left on his night table one evening before you all left California, and when you look at the hair on his face, it is smooth and well-kept.

“Didn’t know y’all were back or I woulda come said hi,” he tells you.

“Oh, we ain’t been back more than half an hour, prob’ly,” you wave him off. 

“This a… friend of yours?” He asks, his gaze moving to Charles.

“Oh,” you say suddenly, turning your attention to the man behind you. “I’m sorry - This is Charles. We met him on our trip. Hosea offered him a place to stay since the winter’s been so cold this year.”

“I think it may also have been because he still felt bad about you stealing from me,” Charles adds and you blush again.

Arthur looks to you for an explanation. “Why you stealin’ from folks?” He asks chidingly, his grin betraying his tone.

“It was an accident,” you laugh. 

Arthur shakes his head. “Good God, I’ve heard it _all_ now,” he says, his sarcastic drawl accompanied by a dramatic roll of his eyes. He reaches out to Charles and the two of them shake hands. “Arthur Morgan.”

“Charles Smith,” Charles replies. 

“Good to meet you,” Arthur says. “Believe it or not, Miss Hawkins here is usually better-behaved ‘n the rest of us.”

Charles hums a sound that almost resembles a laugh, one corner of his mouth ticking up just so.

“Anyway, I won’t disturb you,” Arthur says, one of his usual phrases that signals he’s about to leave.

“Alright,” you smile at him, and he returns the look, making your heart thrum wildly in your chest. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

“G’night, Miss Hawkins.”

* * *

Winter continues on and time presses forward, as time is wont to do, and most people welcome Charles with open arms. He’s so quiet and unobtrusive around the fort that it’s more like he’s haunting the place than he is living there, but he seems content with that. You surmise that he could probably do just fine on his own, but Charles decides to stick around because everyone in the gang “treats him fair,” which makes you wonder how in the world it came to be that a bunch of thieves and killers are the best people you’ve ever known, and also the only ones who seem decent enough to treat people fairly.

The two of you get along swimmingly, after the initial awkwardness of your first impressions of one another passes, and he seems drawn to you for your tendency to go long periods without speaking unless spoken to - the two of you spending many a night by the campfire in comfortable silence, the only sounds punctuating the air between you being the dull, repetitive scrape of his whetstone against a hatchet or a knife.

For whatever reason, many people seem to find his silence unnerving, namely Uncle, Bill, and Micah, and they seem intent on teasing him about it. You’re hemming a pair of pants by the fire on just such a night when Uncle pulls up a chair to join you, a beer in his hand, and, by the smell of him, several more already sloshing around in his belly.

He grins at you before pulling on his beer and wiping his mouth with his sleeve unceremoniously.

“How you keepin’?” He asks.

“Fine, Uncle,” you answer him with a polite grin, glancing up from your task briefly. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m just dandy,” he says. 

A beat of silence.

“Charles?” Uncle says. “How you keepin’?” He asks again.

“I’m keepin’,” Charles answers, sounding a little annoyed.

Uncle chortles. “I like that. Big, tough, taciturn. Yes, that’s the word, taciturn!” He points a finger at Charles who doesn’t even bother to look up from his work, save to examine the edge of his hatchet in the moonlight.

“Really?” Charles asks, sounding bored. “I don’t know what it means.”

“Well… kinda means big and tough, and… hidin’ how dumb you are by not sayin’ much.”

“That’s me,” Charles says flatly, prompting Uncle to laugh even more.

“Oh, it doesn’t have to be,” Uncle reasons.

“Leave him alone,” you tell Uncle. “It’s better than advertisin’ how stupid you are by talkin’ _too_ much,” you say, earning an almost imperceptible smile from Charles.

Uncle frowns at you, making a sound like you’ve hurt his feelings.

“If the choice is folks thinking I’m dumb but not knowing for sure, and folks knowin’ I’m dumb because I sound like you,” Charles says, pausing to give Uncle a surly look. “I think I’d rather keep ‘em wonderin’.” 

Uncle gives a competitive laugh and points at Charles. “Oh, I see what you did there. Mighty clever. You know, maybe you ain’t so dumb. In that case, you’ll say somethin’.”

“Say what?” Charles asks, one brow quirked up partially.

“I don’t know,” Uncle wheezes. “If I knew, I’d say it.”

“Maybe it just don’t need to be said. Ever think of that?” Charles asks. “Maybe… maybe silence is okay.”

“Silence,” Uncle tsks, waving him off. “Silence, I’ve got enough time for silence. It’s called eternity.”

“I’m startin’ to understand eternity a little better. It’s going to be a lot like this conversation.”

“You are a very boring man, Charles Smith. You know that?”

“So you keep tellin’ me.”

“What’re you gettin’ at Charles for?” Arthur asks in irritation, joining the three of you at the fireside. He holds his gloved palms out toward the flame to warm them.

“I should’ve known you’d take his side,” Uncle says defensively. “There y’all go, gangin’ up on folks,” Uncle says, crossing his arms after he gestures to you and Arthur. 

You exchange a look with your accused accomplice. Arthur quirks up his brow at you.

“Well, you stop bein’ hateful,'' you tell Uncle. “You won’t have to worry ‘bout us gangin’ up on you.”

“I was only teasin’,” Uncle explains.

“Well, cut it out,” Arthur tells him. “Git somewhere. Do some work for once!”

"Really," you say, emphasizing Arthur's point. "'Bout as useful as a trap door in a canoe."

“Hey, now, you know I got a medical condition!” Uncle argues. “You are very cruel to me, Arthur Morgan!” Uncle whines. “N’ you, Miss Hawkins,” he continues, pointing a grubby little finger at you. “You could do with a little tenderness.”

“I disagree,” you say with a sly grin. “I’m plenty tender when it’s deserved, or the situation warrants it.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Uncle says.

“As I said,'' you say, grinning at him. “Deserved or warranted. You’ve never seen it because you don’t fall into those categories.”

“This is why you ain’t got yourself a man and settled down yet,” Uncle explains, and your expression changes into that of a deep scowl. “See? That right there. _Yeesh!_ That look’d make a feral bull moose turn tail and run. These fellers ‘round here is scared of you!”

“Good,” you say brusquely. “Ain’t lookin’ to settle down,” you add.

“Watch whatchu say ‘bout the lady,” Arthur barks. “Crochety bastard.” 

“Oh,” Uncle chortles. “It’s like _that,_ huh?”

“Like what?” Arthur asks, scrunching his face up in annoyance.

“Like what, he says,” Uncle muses to no one in particular. “If you have to ask, I ain’t gonna tell you.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Arthur sighs impatiently. “So long as it keeps you from gettin’ too close to me.”

You’ve had about enough of Uncle’s drunken jokes. After a while it usually started to border on cruelty.

“Tell you what, Uncle,” you snap. “You want a woman to be nice to you, go talk to Jenny or Mary-Beth. I’ve had about enough of your bullshit for the evening.” 

This prompts a burst of laughter from the old man, and he strains himself to get up from his seat as his raucous wheezing peters out.

“Charming as ever, Miss Hawkins,” he tells you. “Maybe I will. Dead rat would be better company than the three of you.”

You set your sewing to the side and fold your arms over your chest, trying to tamper down the ire simmering in your belly.

“Hell, I don’t reckon he’ll have much luck with that from either of them, either,” Arthur laughs, stepping over the log you’re sitting on so he can sit beside you. 

“Well, the odds are better,” you say. “I do feel bad for sendin’ him their way, though. I wouldn’t wish him on my worst enemy,” you snort. “Don’t pay Uncle no mind, Mr. Smith. Uncle’s got less sense than a bag of hammers.”

Charles considers you for a moment before nodding. “Thanks.”

Arthur pulls out his journal and starts to write, his pencil scratching against the paper quietly. The three of you sit there, working diligently on your own tasks, enjoying the company and the pocket of relative calm you’ve carved out by the fire. None of the other camp members seem interested in intruding on your little gathering, and, so busy with your sewing, you don’t even realize that Pearson has announced that dinner is served until Arthur fetches you a plate when he gets his own. It is a small gesture but it warms your soul nonetheless. 

You wonder what Arthur thinks of Uncle's comments about you. About your claim that you don't want to settle down. He'd been quick to defend you to the ornery old man, but do you really want _him_ to think you feel that way?

You glance at him and he meets your gaze, quirking up a brow as if to say _what's wrong?_ You give a nigh-imperceptible shake of your head and a small smile creases the corner of your mouth.

Whatever he thought of Uncle's comments, they hadn't seemed to affect your friendship.

That night, you dream of the Dulvey Estate, burning to the ground with you inside of it. It's all happening in slow motion: flames lick the curtains and walls and ashes float from the ceiling as the rafters fall down around you. You walk calmly through the blaze, one step at a time, and though your lace dress is catching, you know, somehow, that it won't hurt you.

* * *

You learn quickly that Charles is a skilled tracker, leagues ahead of you and Hosea. When it comes time for volunteers to bring game to Pearson’s table, he is usually the first to sign up. It makes sense, based on what you know about him from your first meeting. Far up in the mountains and away from the rest of the world, you’ve no shows to perform, so you start accompanying Charles on his hunts, as it becomes a good way to keep your skills sharp and a chance to stretch your legs. 

The Grizzlies are as untamed as the unsettled wilderness gets, posing new threats and challenges for you, but with Charles’ guidance, you adapt fairly quickly to the harsh environment and its associated dangers. You end up spending a lot of time trapping and gathering plants since he asks you not to use guns, lest you scare away everything for miles around. 

He is a patient teacher, giving you simple instructions as he demonstrates before letting you try, and this manifests most notably the day he teaches you to shoot a bow. It's a long time coming, you figure, because it's his preferred method, and because of how you first met.

“Reckon it’s time you learned another way,” he says, and you shrug. Why not? 

He sets up a makeshift shooting range on the far edge of camp and shows you how to draw the string back - the correct posture and footing - before giving you any arrows. 

"You want to anchor your hand at the same spot near your face every time, but be sure not to rest the string too closely against your nose or cheek when you pull back. That's a good way to hurt yourself when you let the arrow fly. And you want to aim with the tip of the arrow."

You give it a few tries, your arms and hands trembling with the effort of pulling the string all the way back, and your first two arrows barely make it to your target, landing in the snow just feet from the sack of corn you're aiming at. You sigh in frustrated acceptance before turning to Charles. He’s leaning patiently against a pine with his arms crossed and an unreadable expression on his face. He pushes off the tree with a patient grin before approaching you.

“Your form’s decent,” he grants you. “You’ve got the basic idea down.”

“Thanks, but I don’t know if that counts for much if I can’t draw the string back all the way,” you tell him, an uneven grin creasing your lips.

“Sure it does,” he replies, circling around to your side. “Here, let me show you.” He gestures toward you as he steps a little closer. “Might have to get in a little close. Is that alright?” 

You blink at him, realizing what he means, then nod automatically. “Sure,” you say, feeling your cheeks get warm and hoping the fact that you’re already flushed from the cold will hide your blush.

“Okay,” he says. “Go ahead and notch another arrow and draw the bow like normal. Only this time, I’m going to help you.”

You nod, following his instructions, the muscles in your arms and shoulders flexing as you pull back on the bow. Charles stands at your back and frames himself around you, mimicking your posture. His right hand goes to your own, fingers wrapping around the string just above yours. When he adds his strength to yours, the tension in your limbs disappears, leaving you both a little embarrassed and a little impressed. His left hand goes to your left hand, dwarfing it easily as he closes his palm around the grip and holds it steady for you.

It’s reminiscent of the way Arthur taught you to shoot a rifle, only Arthur had been almost hesitant to get as close to you during the hands-on part of his instruction.

You consider the difference in their touch, their individual closenesses, and wonder, briefly, what it would be like to be held by both of them at once.

“Now,” Charles says quietly, his voice low and modulated and mere inches from the shell of your ear. “Try to hit the ‘A’ in ‘maize,’” he says, and you focus on the letter printed in black on the sack of grain. “Take a deep breath, aim, and release.”

Lulled to a calm by his close contact, you follow his instructions, reciting them in your head as you do. A breath filters in through your nose, controlled and even, and you focus on your target before finally letting the arrow fly. It zips through the air and penetrates the surface of the canvas just to the right of the ‘A,’” and you can’t help your mouth from falling open as you look on with pleasant surprise as Charles lets go of you. You let out an excited huff of a breath before you look at him over your shoulder, and he is already giving you a proud smile.

“See?” He says with measured enthusiasm.

You grin back at him, warmth blooming in your chest. You're thankful he didn't try anything funny when he got in close, but you're not surprised; Charles was always respectful, and he has a very tranquil air about him that makes you feel steady just from being in his presence. He’s soft-spoken but still genuine and firm. 

“Congratulations, Miss Hawkins,” Arthur calls, prompting you and Charles to turn in time to watch him saunter over, wearing a wry grin and carrying a tin mug of steaming coffee. "You just killed a sack of corn."

"Hi, Arthur," you say, giving a genuine chuckle.

He nods at you and then at your mentor. "Charles."

"Mornin'," Charles says. 

"Don't think the deer'll wait on Charles to help you set up your shots," Arthur tells you. Ever the jokester. You roll your eyes at him.

"No," Charles sighs with a crooked smile. "But, keep practicing and you'll be able to do it on your own. If it's somethin' you're serious about, there's a reservation nearby that I’ve traded with on a few occasions. Next time I’m up that way, I could keep an eye out for a bow better suited to your strength.”

"That sounds great," you say with a nod and a smile. 

“Ideally, you only want to hunt big game with a higher draw weight. Anything less than, say, forty pounds won’t give you the power you need to kill anything bigger than a coyote from a safe distance. But, we get you one with a lower weight, and I could teach you to make some improved arrows, and that should close the gap.”

“Huh,” Arthur nods before taking a drink from his cup. “Makes sense. That's kind of you.”

Charles shrugs. "Don't mention it."

“That would be great,” you say emphatically. “Thank you. I can give you the money for it.”

“Not money,” Charles shakes his head. “They’ll be needin’ supplies, furs, things like that.”

“Okay,” you nod. “I have some things I could pack up for you, long as you don’t mind makin’ the trip for me.”

“I don’t mind,” Charles tells you. 

You make a quick pass through camp, packing up a number of things that you think will make a good trade: several bottles of various tonics and bitters, three rabbit pelts, and a gorgeous red fox pelt chief among them. You deliver the sack of goods to Charles and he packs it onto Taima’s saddle. You wave him off as he departs, hoofprints trailing behind him in the snow. 

You’re left standing at the gates with Arthur, who breaks the silence first.

“You an’ him seem to be gettin’ along,” he observes aloud. "'Specially considerin' his first impression of you."

You hum a laugh. “He’s good company,” you reply with a nod. “Long as you don’t mind the quiet.”

“I spend time with you, don’t I?” He asks wryly and you sigh at him.

“Sometimes I just ain’t got much to say,” you reply a little defensively.

“I wasn’t complainin’,” he clarifies gently.

“Mhm,” you hum sarcastically. “Sure.”

He laughs. “Miss Hawkins, I believe you’d know it if I was bellyachin’.”

“You got me there,” you say. “Anyway, I wish the others wouldn’t give him such a hard time.”

“Me too,” Arthur agrees.

You find yourself relieved that Arthur seems to like Charles; you'd worried initially that he would be jealous of him, of how much time you'd been spending with him. Arthur just seemed pleased for you to have another friend, pleased that there was another person who understood both your and Arthur's quieter sides.

“Maybe silence is okay.” You both say it at the same time, and Arthur grins at you fondly when you huff out a slightly surprised laugh, prompting your stomach to toss and turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy 8)  
> Charles is finally here!  
> I borrowed some of the dialogue in this chapter from [this hidden scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xc-ap-CPWp4) in the game.  
> Thank y'all so much for reading and commenting. It really is so wonderful to read any feedback!  
> Hope January is treating everyone well <3


	11. Save Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It weighs heavier on one's heart  
>  I could tell right from the start that sweet ones are hard to come across  
> Well there is more than meets the eye  
> Heart like yours is rare to find  
> [Someone else's gain will be my loss](https://youtu.be/5KX5ZVZG5Cs)_

Nothing holds silence like the snow.

Taima’s hooves crunch steadily through the expansive blanket of white as Charles rides, the land around him eerily quiet, save for the howling song of the wind blowing briskly through the trees. He’s still a few hours from the reservation, he figures, and his only company are his loyal mare and his wandering thoughts, and his thoughts keep drifting back to you and Arthur, specifically the day he’d met the two of you. 

He’d watched you collide with Arthur in the hallway, and the brawny man had caught you effortlessly, standing you upright. At first, the sight of you in this man’s arms had made Charles a little disappointed, but then he’d seen Arthur’s face, heard his voice, and his mouth had gone dry at the sight of Arthur’s partially-exposed chest, uncovered from the rest of a dark red union suit. Charles’ jaw had all but gone slack at Arthur’s hardened, dangerously handsome features and large stature. 

It had been a while since Charles had been with  _ anyone, _ and of his few intimate interactions with other people, they’d all been more sloppy and secretive than emotionally fulfilling. But, in the weeks he’d now spent with your gang, he’d found that you and Arthur had both stirred something within him. Something that felt bright and hopeful and terrifying, something that was falling around him like snow, and, he worried, may eventually threaten to bury him.

The longer he spent with your group, the more he got to see you and Arthur interact, and the more he got to interact with both of you. Whatever initial feelings of jealousy he’d felt had begun to evolve into a small attraction to the both of you, something he would have to wait to understand fully and act on. He’d followed your voice in the beginning, and to his surprise, you’d led him to a semblance of happiness. He feels certain that he might follow you anywhere now. 

* * *

He returns from the reservation a couple of days later with a new bow for you, and you set to practicing right away. This one is easier for you to draw and shoot than the other, but not so much that you’re immune to the effort of doing so. Your arms and shoulders fill in a little more with lean, supple muscles as you spend the next few weeks training, and when Charles is confident enough in your developing skill, he recruits you for your first bowhunt. 

He wakes you before dawn, calling your name once, quietly, from the threshold of your door. You blink your eyes open from the safety of your blankets and roll over to look up at him.

“Time to go,” is all he says, his voice low and smooth.

You yawn, covering your mouth with your hand. “Alright. Meet you at the stables?”

“Fine with me,” he answers, and though you can barely make out his large frame in the dark, you can hear the slight grin in his voice.

You brace yourself for the cold, but you still shiver when you pull back the blankets on your cot, your teeth clattering together noisily. You dress as quickly as you can, your fingers fumbling around buttons and clasps as you pull on several layers of clothing to save you from what you guess will be a fiercely chilly day. 

Once you’ve dressed and buttoned up your thick gray coat, you fasten your gun belt and holsters, then pull on your boots and a pair of tanned half-chaps. You gather your hair and braid it, tucking it into the scarf you wrap around your neck, and don your signature black stalker hat.

You pass Arthur on your way out; he’s in the den of the bunkhouse drinking coffee and staring thoughtfully out the window. He stands up straight and looks over at you when he hears your boots clacking against the floor, and a drowsy smile creases his lips when he sees your face.

“Y’all headin’ out?” He asks, his voice still a little froggy from sleep.

You nod, humming a sound of affirmation, your heart melting at how much you love seeing him like this. You go to him and he holds out his cup to you. You take it carefully, and when you close your hands around it, prickling heat emanates immediately from the metal and spreads from your palms outward, the heat enveloping you and making you shiver. You blow over the top of the liquid before taking a cautious sip. You gulp down the harsh-tasting beverage, long since used to it, and it splashes into your stomach. You hand the cup back to him and give him a look of thanks. 

“‘Member how much you used to squirm, drinkin’ it like that,” he comments, and you hum a laugh.

“Yeah, well you put up with somethin’ bitter long enough, you get used to it,” you tease him, nudging him with your elbow.

He takes a step back and scrunches his face up as if you’ve wounded him, then resumes his easy smile. “Y’ain’t wrong there.”

“Bitter enough myself, besides,” you add dryly. “Accordin’ to Uncle.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’tchu start believin’ anythin’  _ Uncle _ has to say. You’re sweet as they come.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but grin. “If you say so.”

An easy silence passes between the two of you as he takes another sip of his coffee.

“Anyway,” you sigh. “Charles is waitin’ on me, so -” 

"’Course,” he nods understandingly. “Try not to get into any trouble.”

"I've never gotten into trouble in my life," you reply, and he snickers. 

"Just be safe," he clarifies patiently.

"I will," you agree. 

You wring your gloved hands for a moment, gathering your courage, and go in for a side-hug. He trades his coffee to the opposite hand, lifting his arm to let you underneath it. He holds you to him gently for just a moment, and you breathe him in, his scent so familiar that it feels like coming home. You each let go and he clears his throat as you turn to leave.

"See ya soon," he says, and you stop in the doorway. 

"See you soon," you return, smiling at him as you close the door behind you, and wondering if maybe Hosea had been right about you and Arthur all along. 

You meet Charles at the stable and the two of you saddle up, gathering your supplies and weapons for the day. The rest of the camp is still very much asleep by the time you leave, so the place is as quiet as you’ve ever seen it. You follow behind Charles as he sets a path toward the southwest, your lantern swaying in your hand with the motion of Erebus’ pace. 

The sun rises as you follow him deeper into the wilderness, its light slowly bathing the world around you in a soft honeyed glow. Birds call and respond to one another from within the arms of the pine trees, some of them flitting overhead. Charles gets onto the trail of a herd of elk, and after about half a mile, the hoofprints break off into two directions, and you each go after one set.

You ride for a while longer before you climb off of Erebus and tell him to wait. You retrieve your bow and quiver from your saddle, fastening the quiver to your belt. Your Schofield is already at home in its holster on your hip, so you return to the trail and set to tracking. You move quietly and steadily, in a slight crouch, as you follow the hoof marks, and you keep your ears open as you go. You wind your way down into a small valley dotted with foliage, and notice a cave entrance in the side of the rock on the far side of the mountain. You scan the area for movement, and you spot something amongst the trees up ahead. You wait until you see it again: a large, dark brown shape emerges from the brush. It’s a young bull elk. You creep toward it and crouch among the foliage, notching an arrow. You pull back on the string, aiming with the tip of the arrow, and when you finally get a good angle on the elk, you take your shot. The arrow whispers sharply as it flies, finding its mark in the animal’s neck and sending it stumbling sideways. It lets out its signature wailing cry and you think for a second you’ve succeeded, but the animal huffs and puffs as it regains its footing and takes off into the forest. Your eyes narrow with surprise, and you give chase, half-jogging through the snow as you follow the trail of hoofprints and blood. 

After several minutes, the trail leads you through another thick cove of brush. The elk seems to be catching its breath, and you line up another shot. You let the arrow fly and it hits, but still the beast does not go down. You curse under your breath as you start after it once more, and give a shrill whistle for Erebus to catch up to you. 

You follow the trail again and this time the snow is covered with even more blood. Finally, you break through a disturbed section of foliage to find the elk lying in a heap and no longer moving.

You glance backward when you hear something shuffling through the snow and see Erebus plodding over to you. He gives you a short whinny and shakes his head as he comes to a stop. You unsheath your hunting knife and go to the fallen elk’s side to begin the grisly work of harvesting its resources.

As you work, your gloved hands become covered in deep crimson, and you lose track of time.

Erebus gives a sudden, sharp neigh as he rears up on his back legs just slightly.

“Shh,” you call to him gently. “I’ll be done soon, boy.”

He prances in place, snorting and wheezing, and you stand up to approach him, putting your knife back into its sleeve, and holding your other hand out to the side as you try to calm him.

You take two steps toward him before you see movement in the corner of your eye, and you whip your head around instinctively to find the source of Erebus’ agitation.

Your mouth goes dry when you lock eyes with a juvenile mountain lion slowly creeping towards you. Your breath catches in your throat and all you can do is watch as it prowls toward you, one careful step at a time. You try to swallow your fear, but your belly is already full to burst with it, and your tongue feels like a foreign lump of tissue against the inside of your mouth. The cougar growls at you, low and feral, and you flinch when Erebus gives a high-pitched neigh before turning tail and leaving you behind.

You inch your fingers toward the revolver on your hip, your blood turning from ice to fire as your stomach tightens up and your limbs grow loose with adrenaline. The cat bares its teeth at you when it hisses, and you don’t dare move, until it charges at you.

It leaps at you and you draw your gun, firing several rounds into its abdomen when it makes contact with your left arm, now thrown up to defend your face. Its claws and gaping maw tear into you, and as you fall, it goes limp and lands on top of you, burying you beneath its golden body and knocking the wind out of you.

You gasp for a breath, sucking bitterly cold air down between gritted teeth as you struggle under the dead cat’s weight, and realize that several things hurt all at once. You make a strange, strangled sound when your arm throbs with the pain of exposed flesh in several places, and your eyes burn with tears. Your right thigh is also screaming, and the left side of your ribcage feels like it’s been smashed and ground against stone. Your breath comes in uneven gasps when you look at the sight of the dead animal’s fangs still embedded in your arm, blood dripping out of the holes made there. An involuntary whine of repulsion and fear works its way up your esophagus and out of your mouth, rising visibly into the air with your breath.

You try to calm yourself down by inhaling through your nose for several seconds, but the expanding of your lungs brings about a fresh wave of pain to your ribs, and so you just end up coughing weakly instead, which only serves to exacerbate each and every site of injury. A pained groan wrenches itself from your throat before it devolves into a sob, and you puff your cheeks out as you put all your panicked strength into trying to push the cat off of you. This ends up being one of your poorer decisions, as you end up with a cramp in your side from the strain. 

Your thoughts race in time with the pendulum of your adrenaline-fueled heartbeat, and the reality that your body won’t cooperate with you begins to overwhelm you, as if you are slipping down into encroaching quicksand. You lie there beneath the dead cat, your mind reeling and jumping to every possible worst conclusion, and then you remember Arthur’s words:  _ Just be safe.  _ So much for that. 

_ I’m going to die here,  _ you think. _ I’m going to bleed out, and they’ll never find me - there won’t be anything to bury. They’ll think I disappeared like John - _

You remember that you’re not out here alone when you hear encroaching, snow-muffled hoofbeats.

The sound slows for a moment, then picks up again.

You gather a cautious breath and clench your jaw against your chattering teeth. “Charles?” You call as loud as you can manage.

“Miss Hawkins?” He shouts in response. 

You let out a relieved huff of air despite the protest in your ribs. “Over here!” You answer.

“I heard gunshots, are you -” He starts to ask as you see him break through the dense brush to your right, displacing more tufts of snow from the branches as he emerges. His eyes scan the scene until he finds you - and the cougar on top of you - and his dark brows shoot up toward his hairline.

“Oh  _ no,” _ he breathes in hushed, startled concern, hastily making his way over to you. He pulls the cat off of you with little effort and it thunks in the snow beside you.

“Thank you,” you breathe, wincing at the pain in your side. You realize now the sharp elbow shape of a tree root is digging into your side, and you contend that you must’ve landed on it when you fell. Just your luck.

“Can you move?” Charles asks you, kneeling at your side, looking like he’s trying to assess how much of the blood on your clothing belongs to you and how much of it belongs to the cougar.

“I don’t -” you wince when you try to sit up, and end up falling back against the hard root of the tree. You groan quietly through grit teeth. “I don’t think so.”

“This is bad,” he says worriedly, eyeing the torn fabric on your arm and the blood steadily seeping out of it. 

You can’t quite make yourself look at it, for fear of vomiting your breakfast into the snow.

“We need to get you back to camp. I’m going to help you up, alright?” He says, and you nod.

He wraps your uninjured arm around his neck and rests one of his arms around your middle as he helps you stand up, half-carrying, half-leading you back toward the way he came.

You make an unexpected sound of pain, something between a whine and a sob, as you force your legs to take a few wobbly steps.

“I’ve got you,” he says, and your head swims with the gravity of it all: his nearness, his arm around your waist, the gashes in your arm, the staggering pain in your ribs, and, you now notice, another set of gashes on your right thigh. 

You stumble sideways against him despite your best efforts, and he tries to steady you. One of the cat's back feet must've caught your leg on the way down.

“I don’t think you should walk. Let me carry you to Taima, at least. She’s not far.”

You can’t will yourself to form words as you stare up at him from his side, and eventually you settle for nodding at him weakly.

As carefully as he can, he moves your injured arm so that it rests across your chest, and he loops the other around his neck before he gathers you into his arms and scoops you up with ease, with one of his arms under your knees and the other around the middle of your back. You hiss at the waves of pain that shoots through your body when he lifts you. 

“I know,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say with difficulty, squeezing your eyes shut to keep yourself from succumbing to the wave of nausea that washes over you. 

“Thought I told you not to daydream out here,” he adds, trying to keep you in the moment with some levity.

“Go to Hell,” you tell him with a strangled laugh.

He turns around, walking backwards out of the brush so that the branches don’t swipe against you, and when he emerges, he turns back around and you spy Taima just up ahead.

“You didn’t… see Erebus?” You ask, your voice sounding pitifully small.

“No. The cougar spook him?”

You frown, nodding weakly.

He sets you down as carefully as he can against the base of a tree, then brings two fingers up to his mouth to give a shrill whistle. The two of you glance around but the landscape retains its relative silence. Your bottom lip quivers and you squeeze your eyes shut as your head lolls back against the tree.

Charles goes to Taima and takes her reins, pulling her along over to you before he starts unfastening the straps of her saddle. 

“What’re you doing?” You ask weakly, your brows pinching downward.

“Need to take her saddle off.”

“Why?” You ask, unable to connect the dots on your own.

“You can’t ride on your own like that, and we don’t have time to find your horse,” he explains patiently. “It’ll be safer for us and better on her back if we take the saddle off.”

“Oh,” you mutter. “Okay.”

“Stay with me.”

You just nod and try to keep your eyes open.

He slides Taima’s saddle from her back and sets it down in the snow to your right.

“I’m gonna stand you up,” he says. “Just lean against the tree for support. I’ll climb on and help you up.”

You nod again, shivering at the breeze blowing coldly against the sheen of sweat on your brow. He stands you up and you do as he says, leaning most of your weight against the tree and trying to keep from putting any weight on your injured leg. Your vision sways, going dark around the edges as you see the warped image of blood-stained snow beneath your feet. You think of the cougar and of every other deadly predator that could just as easily have snuck up on you, and perk up from your renewed dismay.

“We can’t leave him out here,” you blurt out, your voice thin. Charles fixes you with a patient look. “We can’t… Charles, he’ll die,” you whine, embarrassment and desperation weighing down on you and making you feel absolutely pathetic. You try to push off the tree to go looking for your mount, but your legs give out and you slip down the side of the tree.

“Whoa,” Charles says, reaching for you again and trying to steady you. 

You try to push his hands away, your voice hoarse as you whimper.

“No, we can’t just leave him,” you argue, and it comes out as barely more than a whisper.

“Johanna, listen to me,” Charles says gently. “We have to get you back. Erebus will be fine. I’ll come back and look for him as soon as you’re safe.”

You give him a pitiful questioning glance. “Promise me,” you say.

“I promise.”

You let him stand you up once more, and he hoists himself up onto Taima’s back and gets settled before reaching for you.

“C’mon,” he says, extending a hand to you.

You take a wobbly, cautious step forward and reach up your arms as far as they will go. He leans down and connects with you, giving you a quick countdown before he pulls you up. You brace for the pain and grit your teeth when it comes, the sensation of being lifted onto the horse making your head swim once more as a line of fire burns up and down your arm as well as your side and your thigh.

Charles secures you in front of him, your back against his broad chest, and wraps an arm around your middle while he takes the reins in the opposite hand. He gives Taima a delicate squeeze with his legs and she snorts, starting forward. He steers her around, putting her on course to head for camp, and you can do little else besides lay back against Charles. He urges Taima into a trot, holding you steady as the movement jostles you. Your eyelids grow heavy and you let them fall closed. The world reverberates around you as you’re, presumably, carried home.

You drift across an ocean of pain - for weeks or for hours, you can’t be sure - the current lifting and swaying as it delivers you to nowhere in particular. 

When you open your eyes next, you’re at the gates of the fort, looking down at a wobbling, blurry figure standing guard. You hear Charles’ voice and guess that he’s speaking to them, but you can’t make sense of his words outside of that. You slump back against him and the world grows dark once more, your heart pounding weakly in your temples and what feels like your whole body damp with your own blood.

* * *

“What happened?” Hosea asks, rushing to Taima’s side, along with several other gang members.

“Cougar got her,” Charles says, and a few people gasp lightly. He adjusts his hold on you to keep you upright and hold the reins at the same time. Grimshaw takes the reins from him and holds Taima steady as Charles hands you down to Pearson and Davey. If not for whatever fire destroyed the fort’s infirmary, Charles assumes they’d probably take you straight there, but instead, they carry you to Strauss’ medical wagon, followed by Grimshaw and Reverend Swanson, who immediately set to work. They draw the canvas flap closed on their makeshift operating room as Pearson and Davey make their way out.

“A cougar?” Hosea asks. “She’s lucky to be alive.”

“Mhm,” Charles nods as he climbs down off of Taima’s back and pats her on the neck. “Must’ve snuck up on her. Guess her reflexes were pretty quick. It was lyin’ on top of her and full of bullet holes when I found her.” 

“Thank God for that,” Hosea says, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth in thought. 

“She had on so many layers,” Charles continues. “Wounds aren't as deep as they could've been. Think she bruised her ribs, too, though.”

“Is she gonna be alright?” Tilly asks, concern knitting her brows together.

“She’ll be fine, dear,” Hosea assures her with a wave of his hand. “Swanson might be a drunken fool but he has the hands of a healer. And Susan has brought some of us back from much worse.”

That seems to placate Tilly and the other girls who’ve assembled. They disperse one by one, going back to their duties but stealing glances towards the medical tent. Jack’s eyes are the size of apples, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks, his bottom lip quivering. Abigail picks him up and utters something to him as she carries him away. The others who gathered - Pearson, Davey, Javier, and Uncle - dissipate as well, their necks craning every now and then to the white canvas of the tent.

“Where’s her horse?” Hosea asks.

“Cougar spooked him. He ran off. I promised her I’d go back for him once she was safe.”

“Damn,” Hosea breathes. “Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

“I’m sorry, Hosea,” Charles says, starting to lead Taima back to the front gate. “I shouldn’t have let her go off on her own.”

“No, no,” Hosea waves him off as he follows. “She’s a grown woman, she can handle herself. It’s good you were there at all. Thank you for bringin’ her back.”

“Of course,” Charles says. “Wasn’t just gonna leave her out there.”

“I know that,” Hosea says. “I just meant -”

“I know,” Charles tells him. He exchanges a look of understanding with Hosea, prompting the old man’s shoulders to deflate as he sighs in ragged relief. 

“She’s gonna be alright,” Charles says, trying to convince himself as much as Hosea. “Could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Yes,” Hosea sighs. Then he gives a thoughtful chuckle. “Arthur ain’t gonna like this.”

“What do you mean?” Charles inquires. 

“Oh,” Hosea says, shaking his head as he leads Erebus into his stall. “Nothing. He’s just a big, repressed idiot. Don’t think too much on it.”

“Alright,” Charles says, quirking up a brow. “When’s he due back?”

“This evening, at the latest, I’d say. Him and Dutch went out scoutin’ for nearby towns with Bill. Any place we could stop for supplies come thaw.”

Charles makes a thoughtful sound.

“Hopefully you’ll be back by the time he gets here. He seems to respect you, and it’ll be better if he understands the truth of the matter. Might help keep him from flyin' off the handle like he does.”

Charles nods. He climbs onto Taima’s back and clicks his tongue at her, starting back out into the wilderness.

As he rides, he can’t help but let his mind wander.

What did Hosea mean when he called Arthur a ‘repressed idiot?’ That he cared for you and just refused to admit it? It wasn’t like he was a minority. Based on how the camp had responded to your injury, Charles figured it was safe to assume most people cared for you a great deal. Except for Uncle, maybe. You seemed to play a pretty important role. And he’d thought you and Arthur were close, with the way you two seemed to gravitate toward one another. Why would Arthur deny himself the privilege of being your friend? He remembers the night the two of you had defended him from Uncle’s incessant yapping and the way the action had only served to fuel that confusing, happy unrest within him. He didn’t  _ need _ you to stick up for him, but you seemed intent on protecting him from the old man’s cruel ribbing anyway.

You were capable and kind, but you were also very easy on the eyes - a thought he’d had from the moment he laid eyes on you but tried to steer clear of out of respect for you. Out of respect for what you’d said to Uncle that night he’d harassed you about settling down. Uncle was misinformed, though. He’d heard the other men in camp talking about you when you weren’t around. Since Charles had arrived, several of the other men had, on different occasions, drunkenly lamented about professing their feelings or attractions to you in some capacity, only for you to politely turn them down. Something to do with a man from your past by the name of Dulvey. It had made you seemingly averse to the whole concept of getting involved with men as anything more than friends or associates. Charles understands, but he can’t help wondering what would’ve been bad enough for you to close off your heart entirely.

The only man who hadn’t spoken about you in that way was Arthur, which surprised Charles. Maybe it had to do with the man from your past, or maybe Arthur respected you too much, or you had turned him down once before. Maybe Arthur just wasn’t interested, but everything Charles had seen the man do in your presence suggested otherwise. Charles had only joined the gang to follow your voice, so if Arthur wasn’t going to pursue you, maybe he would. 

He goes for his saddle first -  _ not like it’s going anywhere, _ he thinks. As he puts it back into place on Taima’s back, he thinks back to the day he’d taught you to shoot a bow, just a few weeks prior. The way you’d adhered to his instructions and let him get in close enough to touch, to fold his body around yours respectfully. He wonders what it would be like to cradle you close the way he had on Taima’s back, were the circumstances different. The way that, if the breeze caught your hair on a windy day, the sweet scent of lavender would carry across camp and lull him into a moment of calm.

He closes his eyes and takes a breath, pushing away the thought on his exhale.

It was enough just to be around you, just to hear you sing around the fire. It would have to be.

He follows Erebus’ trail and finds the horse grazing lazily in the sun where he’s discovered a melted patch of grass. The stallion gives him no resistance when he attaches him by rope to the horn of Taima’s saddle with plenty of slack in the line.

He drops both horses off at the stables, where John takes over for him, and returns to the medical tent just as Susan and Swanson emerge, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows and their hands covered in blood. They take turns rinsing up in the camp’s wash barrel and return to the wagon, drying their hands with a towel. 

“She’s stable, for now,” Swanson says. “Got her cleaned and bandaged, gave her a small dose of morphine for the pain. Now, we just pray she doesn’t get infected.”

“I’m gonna go give Hosea the news,” Grimshaw says. “Mr. Smith, you did well bringin’ her back here safe. We surely appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Charles nods. 

“Gentlemen,” Grimshaw nods to Charles and Swanson before she takes her leave, trudging toward the bunkhouse.

“I’m going to keep an eye on her,” Swanson says. “But you can come in to see her if you like.”

Charles nods and rises from his seat, ducking his head as he enters the tent to find you laid out flat on your back on a cot, buried beneath several layers of blankets. Even in sleep, your brows are pinched together slightly, your injured arm resting on top of the outer layer of covers and wrapped in gauze from your shoulder down to your knuckles.

It’s then that Hosea ducks inside and pauses at the door as he regards you with concern. Charles wonders if Hosea even realizes he’s doing it when the older man brings a hand up to cover his own mouth as he goes carefully to your side. Charles' chest constricts when Hosea brushes your hair away from your forehead, his guilt compounded by the way Hosea says,  _ “Stay strong, my dear.”  _

You were a new friend to Charles, and a close friend to Arthur and the rest of the gang, but seeing this, Charles contends that you must be like a daughter to Hosea.

The old schemer had told Charles he wasn’t responsible, but seeing you like this, Charles can’t help but blame himself. What if you never sang by the fire again? What if you were no longer there to be around?

Sometime later, the sound of hoofbeats gives him pause, and he looks up to find three familiar riders approaching. Hosea ducks out of the tent and half-jogs over to the gates. He starts talking just as Arthur climbs off his horse and plants his boots in the snow. 

_ “What?!”  _ Arthur exclaims. He and Dutch both go rigid before turning to look in Charles’ direction - in the direction of the medicine wagon. Bill is less concerned, and instead of joining them when they approach the tent, he just escorts all three horses to the stable. 

Charles rises from his spot and Swanson ducks out of the tent to stand at his side.

“Reverend,” Dutch calls. “How is she?”

“She’s stable,” Swanson says. “Still out cold, I’m afraid.”

“You better not be drinkin’ on the job,” Arthur snarls, pointing an accusatory finger at Reverend Swanson, who only pouts in response.

“Arthur,” Hosea says chidingly. “She’s going to be fine. She just needs time and rest. Charles here got her back to camp just in time.”

“Well, what was she doin’ out there in the first place?” Arthur asks Hosea in frustration. “Look at Uncle,” he remarks, gesturing toward the other side of the fort. “It ain’t like we’re goin’ hungry.”

“Arthur, will you please calm down?” Dutch asks firmly, shooting him a look. 

Arthur snorts in exasperation, letting his hands fall to rest on his hips.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” Dutch says, reaching out to shake Charles’ hand. 

“Of course. Listen, I’m sorry,” Charles says. 

“What ever for, my boy?” Dutch asks. “You’ve saved her life.”

“I should’ve gone with her,” Charles explains, thinking about Arthur’s comment. “I should’ve -”

“Now, Mr. Smith,” Dutch chortles dismissively. “She ain’t a child. And that was hardly her first rodeo, so to speak.” It feels like Dutch is saying it more to Arthur, who makes a face behind his back.

“Johanna’s been hunting for many years now,” Hosea supplies.

“Exactly,” Dutch says. “It was just a thing that happens sometimes. You go huntin’, you run the risk of bein’ attacked by wild animals. What matters is she’s safe now, and she’ll be able to recover. Don’t trouble yourself ruminatin’ on it.”

“Alright,” Charles finally says, and Dutch smiles approvingly before he heads into the tent.

Arthur waits his turn outside, pacing about slowly.

“Said it was a cougar?” Arthur asks finally, stopping in his tracks.

Charles makes a sound of affirmation and Arthur nods absently.

“Sneaky bastards,” Arthur comments.

“Mhm,” Charles agrees. 

Arthur rubs the back of his neck as he stares at the ground.

“Thank you, Charles.”

“‘Course,” Charles replies. 

He studies Arthur’s posture: he looks stiff, like he’s holding back some barely-restrained eruption of emotion. Charles opens his mouth to ask  _ what _ but he is interrupted by Dutch and Hosea leaving the tent, which seems to signal to Arthur that it’s his turn to go inside.

Arthur nods to Charles before he takes a deep breath and removes his hat, pressing it to his chest as he ducks inside. Arthur goes to your side, looking up and down your pitiful form with a despondent reverence. He finally sits on the edge of the cot, just barely, and sets his hat down on the side table to the left of your head. 

“She’s in the Lord’s hands, Mister Morgan,” Swanson says, probably trying to be encouraging.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Reverend,” Arthur mumbles, not taking the platitude as intended.

“Well,” Swanson tries again, scratching his head. “She’ll pull through. She just needs time.”

Charles decides to leave him to it. 

The next morning, before the rest of the camp is awake, Charles catches sight of something he knows he isn’t meant to see, something that makes everything else make sense: Arthur slinks into your tent, which is now free of the Reverend, with an extra coat in tow. He drapes the thing over you before he sits on the edge of the cot like he did the night before. He carefully brushes your hair from your face, but unlike Hosea, his touch lingers on your cheek after he’s cleared away the stray strands, his thumb swiping softly across your cheekbone. 

Oh.

Arthur leans down and plants a delicate, lingering kiss to your forehead, and Charles finally understands.

_ Oh. _

Arthur wasn’t denying himself the privilege of being your friend. 

He was denying himself the privilege of being something  _ more.  _ He was making sure the two of you were  _ only _ friends, likely for the same reason Charles himself had.

No wonder Arthur had been so awkward the night before. He must’ve been imagining how Charles had gotten her back to camp in the first place. Arthur was smarter than people liked to give him credit for - something he and Charles had in common, apparently - so he must’ve known she couldn't have ridden back on her own.

Charles recalls the times he’d seen the two of you interact: the way Arthur had caught you when you bumped into him on the night Charles had come to the fort. The way he looked at you, the way he seemed to relax in your presence, the way a smile would crease his features whenever you sang, the little gifts he’d leave for you when he thought no one was looking.

Charles then thinks about the feeling of you slumped against his chest, the way his arm fit around your waist, and the reason he’d even decided to join the gang in the first place, and guilt settles into his stomach. Arthur had loved you first, but had, assumedly, never let it be known.

Suddenly, his initial response of melancholy envy is replaced by the sting of compassionate heartbreak. 

_ Oh, Arthur, _ he thinks.  _ You poor, repressed fool.  _

* * *

Arthur hardly sleeps a wink that night. His scarce moments of rest are fraught with bad dreams, the turmoil in his mind manifesting as him tossing and turning in his bed. After a particularly upsetting dream – he sees you gored by a deer, your entrails spilling into the snow – he stops trying to sleep. Instead he just lies awake, staring at the ceiling of his room, trying to resist the urge to return to you. He hates feeling like this: helpless. Knowing full well there is nothing he can do for you but wait, and maybe try to convince you never to go hunting again. He can’t help but laugh internally at that – the idea of you listening to a man telling you  _ not  _ to do something. You’d never hear it, and he would never hear the end of it.

He sits up, resting his back against the wall, and pulls out his journal before turning up the oil lamp on his side table so he can see the paper more clearly. Then, he begins the familiar work of keeping you safe between the pages of his deepest thoughts. The sound of his pencil scratching away in his journal fills the small confines of his living space and an image starts to take a fragile shape.

When he’d returned that afternoon, he’d been excited to hear about the success of your first bowhunt. Instead, his stomach had dropped, the nerves in his chest constricting around the familiar pinprick of an old hurt as he thought:  _ I can’t lose her too.  _ According to Hosea, Charles had saved your life, and Arthur thinks he'll forever be indebted to him for that. 

_ I should’ve been there,  _ Arthur thinks. But maybe it’s better that he wasn’t. He wouldn’t have been able to keep his emotions in check the way Charles seemed to be able to. Arthur might not have made it back in time, and would’ve cost you your life the way he’d cost Eliza and Isaac theirs. 

He had been a little jealous of Charles, at first, but the feeling had faded once he’d gotten to know the man. He’d proven to be trustworthy, and you seemed comfortable around him. You didn’t belong to Arthur, after all; you were yours before you were anyone else’s, and he had come to adore that about you. He just can’t help but think that you deserve to be happy, and that he wants you to be happy and safe, even if it doesn’t include him - even if it means someone else takes his place. And with all the time you and Charles had been spending together, he wonders if you’ll ever change your mind on settling down. Charles is strong, thoughtful, handsome, and patient, and Arthur is worn out, ugly,  _ mean,  _ and ruled by his gut responses, which are usually the wrong ones.

He pauses to swallow back the unshed tears creeping their way into his eyes, clearing his heart from his throat before it can jump out from between his teeth. There you were, starting to make your appearance on the page, your arm bandaged from the shoulder down. He tries to press the graphite to the paper once more, but it just hovers in the space above it. His hand trembles, and finally he understands: he can’t bear to finish the image, lest doing so give way to you not recovering from your injuries. As if talking about death might speak it into existence. 

He smooths his free hand over his brow and moves to the next page.

_ Johanna was attacked by a cougar. She is alive, thanks to the quick thinking of Mr. Smith, but so far, has not woken from her drug-induced sleep. I suspect she passed out from the pain, which I am glad for, but I am terrified that  _ ~~_ I might never see those green eyes _ ~~ _ that she might never open her eyes again.  _ ~~_ Time and again I am reminded that she is too good for all of this, that she deserves to be someplace safe and warm, that   
_ ~~ _ She deserves better than all of this. Better than nearly being mauled to death. I am glad Charles was there. Seems as if nothing rattles him,  _ _ as if he ~~is exactly the kind of level-headed man who would be able to take care of her the way she deserves~~   
_ _ Perhaps I have let myself get too attached to her. Can’t sleep. Can’t think straight.   
_ _ Part of me wishes I had been there to help, or maybe been there to keep it from happening but maybe it’s better that I wasn’t. I wouldn’t have been able to keep my cool like Charles did and it would’ve cost Johanna her life. Reverend Swanson said she’s in the Lord’s hands now, but I told him that’s exactly what scares me. The Lord ain’t been too kind to me regarding women. It’s as if people who try to get close to me only get hurt. And I do not wish that to happen to Miss Hawkins. I reckon it’s time to take a step back.  _

He leaves the next morning before anyone else is awake.  _ Or so he thinks.  _

But first, he makes a stop at your tent to say goodbye.

You barely stir when he sits on the edge of the cot, that hard line that tells him you’re in pain still pinching between your brows. Your hair is stuck to the sheen of sweat on your forehead, and your body is trembling from the cold. He drapes the coat over you, pulling the collar of it up to your chin. You move your head just slightly, bleary-eyed and mumbling something he doesn’t quite catch before blinking your eyes all the way open. You squint at him as your eyes roll around in your head and you look at him without really  _ seeing  _ him. 

“You’re alright,” he says in a hushed tone. “Go back to sleep.”

You struggle with the weight of your eyelids for a moment before they fall closed and you are lost to your slumber once more.  _ She won’t remember this,  _ he thinks.

His chest tightens around that familiar, prickling ball of nerves as he watches you, so pale and pitiful, and, even like this, beautiful. He brushes your hair away from your forehead and leans down to plant a single, solemn kiss between your brows, and he tastes the salt of your skin on his lips long after he pulls away.

* * *

Everything is darkness and amorphous shapes floating across the insides of your eyelids as you can do nothing but endure the searing gashes in the flesh of your arm. You’re weighed down by the exhaustion deep in your bones. Every now and then you catch the ghost of a conversation, the dull, familiar noise of camp. Twice – you think – you sense Arthur at your side. The first time he appears, you aren’t strong enough to pull yourself up out of the black sludge of Morpheus’ embrace, but the second time, you wrest enough control to try and open your eyes, struggling against the weight on your chest as you search for him. You  _ have  _ to speak to him, need him to know you’re okay, need to know if your horse is okay, but you can’t seem to control enough of your teeth and tongue to get the words out. He hovers over you, haloed by golden light, his image blurred, and you wonder if this is actually what dying is, if the angel of death has simply disguised himself now that he’s come to take you away.

_ “You’re alright,”  _ the angel tells you, speaking with Arthur’s voice, and you have no choice but to believe them.  _ “Go back to sleep.”  _

You want to argue with him, to disobey the gentle command, but all you can do is lie there while your body sinks back into the nether, lulled by the careful caress of the angel’s thumb on your cheek. The last thing you feel before the light fades is the angel pressing a soft kiss to your forehead; the final component of a spell cast to ensure your unconsciousness.

You don’t come out of it for another day and a half.

When you do, you come out of it like a seabird out of an oil spill, but you come out of it.

The world is wobbly and warped and overwhelming, but your eyes adjust eventually, and soon after that, most of your fellow gang members – your family – are waiting outside the tent, relieved to see you awake and alive. Someone you expect to see is missing, though you can’t yet figure out who. 

Hosea and Dutch are the first ones to greet you, all smiles and encouraging hand squeezes. Then the girls and little Jack, followed by Pearson. Uncle, and John, to your surprise, both poke their heads in to wish you well. Sean stops by to harass you with another of his old Da’s life lessons before Karen all but grabs him by the earlobe to pull him away. 

“Where is Charles?” You ask, looking to thank him. He pokes his head in then, as if he was waiting on you to ask, and you smile at him.

“Hi,” you say, and he returns your smile with a lopsided grin.

“How you feelin’?” He asks.

“Like I got mauled by a cougar,” you say, making him roll his eyes, his displeasure with your joke betrayed by the widening of his grin.

“Right,” he says. “And… don’t worry. Erebus is safe.”

You relax visibly.

“Thank you for finding him,” you tell him. “And thank you for saving my life.”

He nods.

“And I’m sorry about your saddle.”

“Already went and found it when I went back for your horse,” he replies. “Not like it was goin’ anywhere. Anyway, I can’t take all the credit. You’re the one that killed the cougar, after all.”

You frown. “So much for teaching me to shoot a bow,” you say, looking at your bandages.

“It’ll heal,” Charles says, with his measured version of encouragement. “‘Least you didn’t lose the arm.”

“That is true,” you sigh. You realize then that the person missing from the onslaught of visitors is Arthur. “Is Arthur here?”

Charles glances at the floor and shifts his weight. “No, he, uh –” Charles starts. “He left yesterday morning. Hasn’t been back yet. Went to scope out some town he and Dutch stumbled onto, I think.”

“Oh,” you say, and your face falls. 

Disappointment settles in your belly. So the kiss had been a tormenting fever dream after all.

You understand, though. Arthur had more important things to do than –

“But he did come to see you, before he left,” Charles says.

Your eyes flit up to him hopefully. “He did?”

Charles hums a sound of affirmation. “He was…” Charles pauses as if he’s searching for the right words. “He was real worried about you.”

“Oh,” you say again, sounding relieved this time. Your relief seems to bring comfort to Charles, because his reserved smirk reappears.

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” Charles continues. “You know how busy Dutch keeps him.”

“That I do,” you say. 

You’re able to comfort yourself with Charles’ words for a little while; they stop being reassuring the moment when, just a day later, you see Arthur stalk across camp without even glancing at your tent. 

So much for whatever the Hell Hosea was talking about on your fishing trip.

Grimshaw comes around for her routine changing of your bandages, and you wince when she adjusts your arm so she can get a better angle. Apparently your wounds are healing well, but you find that fact only minimally comforting as you watch Arthur move about the fort. You almost call out to him, but you can’t find the courage to bring that much attention to the fact that you want to see him – or rather, that you want  _ him _ to want to see  _ you.  _

It’s still too painful to move, and between Swanson and Grimshaw, you haven’t been allowed to leave your bed, so you don’t even bother, but it’s hard not to stew in your feelings now that you’re immobilized and stuck alone with them. 

Arthur takes care of a few errands before he downs a quick bowl of stew. He climbs back up onto Boadicea’s back to leave again, and you chew the inside of your bottom lip until you taste blood.

You spend the first few days in and out of sleep, but once you’re past the worst of it, Hosea brings some of your books to you. He sits with you for a little while each day, reading a copy of one of his detective serials as you re-read  _ Oliver Twist.  _

You sigh, not even realizing you’ve done it, and he lowers his book to look at you.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Hosea asks you. “Can I getcha anything?”

“Oh,” you reply. “No, thank you, Hosea. I’m fine.”

He glances at you from over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are you sure?”

You nod, but he remains unconvinced. He dabs two fingertips to his tongue so he can grip the corner of the page he’s on, folding it down into a dog-ear shape before clapping the book closed and setting it in his lap.

“Come on, dear, you know I can tell when something is bothering you.”

You can’t help but spill the proverbial beans. “Arthur hasn’t come to see me,” you say.

“Ah,” Hosea says, glancing at the ground. 

You quirk an eyebrow up. “You sound like you’ve noticed that too,” you tell him.

“I have,” Hosea replies. 

“Did I do something to upset him?” You ask, your voice growing hoarse.

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Hosea shakes his head. “Not… directly, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, your brows slanting in confusion.

Hosea gives a brief, quiet chuckle. “I think you scared him,” Hosea tells you.

“Scared him?”

“You scared us all. It’s never nice when one of our own ends up starin’ death in the face. But Arthur took it pretty hard.”

You just nod. Arthur had known loss like the harsh edge of a knife. Had he thought he was going to lose you, too? You remember how distant he had gotten after Eliza and Isaac: he'd been gone for the better part of two weeks after they passed. You hadn't died, but he seemed to be mourning you anyway. Mourning the  _ possibility _ of your death, perhaps. 

It’s a week before you’re allowed to return to your actual bed in the bunkhouse, and another before you’re allowed out of bed at all. You’re beyond ready to get up and move around by the time Grimshaw gives you the all-clear to do so. Though your arm is still covered in bandages and held in a sling, the pain of your injuries has since faded to a dull ache. The first thing you do is go for a short walk around the fort to stretch your legs. You go see Erebus – he’s been well-taken care of in your downtime – before Jack finds you and pulls you along by your uninjured hand to play and to show you the lopsided snowman he’s built. It’s melting in the sun, and you realize that the first thaw of the impending spring is coming sooner every day. 

Next, Abigail helps you brush out your hair before she twists it into an intricate plait that sits at the back of your head, stretching from ear to ear. It’s after she finishes your hair that Arthur returns from his latest errand, and you're sitting with Abigail and Jack in the den of the bunkhouse when he heaves open the door and steps inside. He knocks the snow off his boots before he enters the room proper, and gives the three of you a gracious nod.

“Ladies. Jack.”

“Hi, Uncle Arthur!” Jack beams.

“Hi, Arthur,” you say, flashing him an inviting smile.

Instead of taking your invitation to come closer, though, he just waves at you before he continues down the hall toward his room. Your mouth falls open and you exchange a look with Abigail before she waves you off in Arthur’s direction. 

You go to his room with his coat in your uninjured hand, and he's sitting at his side table, scratching away in his journal like always. You gather a breath, along with your courage.

"Arthur," you say, and it sounds like a question. 

He turns to you immediately and a smile creases his features. 

"Hello, Miss Hawkins," he says. "It's good to see you up and walkin' around again."

You try to hide your frown by looking at the ground, and pray that you’ve simply been imagining or overthinking his absence, and that you’re not back to being kept at arm's length again. 

"You didn't come to see me," you say quietly, letting your disappointment come through in your tone. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've been real busy, you know how it is."

"I know, I – well, I just figured… maybe you'd… I don't know," you say, swaying slightly in place. 

"Well, I wasn't worried," he says casually. 

"Oh," you say, and your face falls. You’re unable to pull your emotional mask on in time to keep him from seeing you tear up. 

The look on your face must say enough, because he backpedals, his brows shooting up. 

"Oh – well –" he stammers. "I just meant – well, I knew you were in good hands."

You don't look at him. "Okay, Arthur," is all you can say. 

"Aw, Miss Hawkins, I didn't mean –" he stammers, shifting in his chair. 

"Don't worry about it," you tell him curtly, pressing your lips together into a firm, forced smile. "Thank you for letting me hold onto your coat." You toss the garment onto his bed before turning on your heel to leave. "I'll be seeing you, Mr. Morgan." 

He calls after you but you don't even look back. You push down your body's mounting response to what seems like Arthur's ambivalence – swallow back your tears, make yourself straighten up and look straight ahead as you limp inconspicuously down the hall and out the back door. No need to storm off and cause a scene, though it's what you'd prefer. You curse the bandaging on your arm and leg. You'd love nothing more than to climb into the saddle and spur Erebus away from camp so you could disappear for a day or two. But your injuries need to heal, and whenever you draw in too deep a breath, your side aches, so you just settle for sulking in the stable with Erebus, who becomes the only witness to the angry tears slipping down your cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to hurt my own feelings with this ship :)  
> Thank you so much to everyone who regularly reads, and everyone who has left me comments. I really look forward to it every week, it lifts my spirits so much! Your kind words have been keeping me afloat. <3 I hope you're all well n__n


	12. The Salt and The Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All that you suffered, all the disease  
>  You couldn't hide it, hide it from me  
> All alone, scared in your room  
> Would you swear there's nobody home?  
> On the bed, laying awake  
> As you prayed he'd leave you alone  
> I'll let the darkness swallow me whole  
> I need to find you, need you to know  
> I'll be your friend in the daylight again  
> There we will be, like an old enemy  
> [Like the salt and the sea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUqRLL92gVI)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for brief mentions of miscarriage and sexual assault toward the end of the chapter.

You stand at Erebus’ side, halfway hiding behind him, halfway busying yourself by needlessly running a brush over his salt-and-pepper, blue-gray coat. You sigh impatiently through your nose as you try to will yourself not to be consumed by the burning, sinking sensation of rejection. You wipe furiously at a tear on your cheek, brushing the back of your sleeve against your face as you sniffle.

Arthur’s voice echoes in your mind, echoing the phrase that had single handedly ground into dust what little of your heart you’d decided to let out of its cage: _I wasn’t worried._

You swallow a sob, stifling the breath in your chest, but your body pushes back against you by sending a wave of pain through your bruised ribs. It catches you off-guard, making you gasp haggardly. The brush falls from your hand as you clutch your side carefully, squeezing your eyes shut as you wait for the uneven, throbbing feeling in your ribs to subside.

“Miss Hawkins?”

Charles.

Your stomach drops as you open your eyes and find him carrying a bale of hay down the center aisle of the stables.

“You alright?” He asks, his expression worn into one of a concern so soft it threatens to make you cry all over again. He sets the bale down off to one side and approaches Erebus’ stall. “Are you in pain?”

You clear your throat and force a smile. “I’m fine,” you lie.

He remains unconvinced. “Don’t look fine.”

“I am,” you assert with a sigh, causing another sharp stitch in your side, and you can’t keep from wincing. “God damn it,” you hiss as you catch yourself against the side of the stall.

“You need to rest,” he says, gently but firmly, and you bite your tongue to keep from cursing at him.

He doesn’t deserve your misplaced ire. Though it feels wrong to be seen this way, to be so outwardly vulnerable, that isn’t Charles’ fault. It’s not like the two of you are exactly strangers. He’d at least earned a little bit of honesty. 

“I’m tired of resting,” you say instead. “I’m gonna wither away if I rest any more. I’m tired of being a burden to everyone.”

“I understand.” He leans against the stall door, resting his elbows on the edge. “But you’re not a burden.”

You watch him warily, your brows knit together with all your frustration and pain. How was it so easy for him to say things like that and make them sound like they were just an objective statement of fact?

“I don’t like feeling like I’m not carrying my own weight either. But you need time to heal before you can get back to normal. Nothing wrong with letting us carry you for a little while.”

You bite the inside of your lip to keep from crying again, but you feel the tears gathering. You have to look away from him for a moment to collect yourself. “I’m sorry,” you croak out, clearing your throat.

“What for?” He inquires patiently.

You stand there, staring dumbly at him, feeling utterly incompetent that you are unable to give him a good answer. _For being the way that I am,_ you want to say. _For being so pathetic. For not being enough. For -_

“You don’t need to apologize,” he tells you, pulling you from the storm in your mind.

You almost laugh. “You’re very kind to me.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks.

 _Because I don’t deserve it._ “Because I stole from you.”

He hums a laugh, one corner of his mouth turning up. “That was an accident, right? Already forgave that.”

 _Because I fucked up and got myself injured in the first place._ “Because you had to save my ass from bleedin’ to death.”

“And I’d do it again,” he says, and it hits you like a ton of bricks. “Though, I’d prefer if we could avoid it in the future.”

You can’t help the laugh that erupts from your chest. It catches both of you by surprise, and you quickly cover your mouth with your hand. You have to cover the rest of your face in embarrassment when you see the crooked grin hanging from Charles’ lips; he looks pleased with himself that he’s gotten a smile out of you.

You resist the urge to apologize again as you look at him between your fingers. You let your hand fall from your face and make a sound of exasperation.

“Sor-” you start, then correct yourself. “Thank you, Mr. Smith. I didn’t mean to put all that on you.”

“S’alright. I asked.”

You purse your lips and the two of you share a moment of contemplative quiet as you pretend to untangle a knot from Erebus’ mane.

“What else is wrong?” Charles asks.

You hesitate, not wanting to overshare any more than you already have. “Nothing, really,” you tell him, shaking your head. “I’m…” You’re what? There are so many little things pulling at you, like little children pulling at loose threads in a sweater until it comes completely unwoven. Your embarrassment at having to be rescued from a stupid mistake. Your shame from feeling like you’ve tricked Charles into empathizing with you. Your frustration with your own helplessness. And that doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of the looming heartache you feel thanks to your spat with Arthur.

“Miss Hawkins?” Charles says, raising his eyebrows at you, beckoning for you to finish your answer.

You rub your forehead for a moment before speaking up: “I’m okay.”

“You sure?” Charles asks.

“Yes,” you nod. “You’ve done enough for me, Mr. Smith. Thank you. I just need some time to myself, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” he says, giving you a smile that says, _why wouldn’t it be?_ “You’re welcome.”

He leaves you be, picking the bale of hay back up and taking it to its original destination, and you hide your face against Erebus’ neck, feeling utterly incompetent when it comes to accepting other people’s kindness.

* * *

You and Arthur are colder than the weather to each other for what little is left of the season, and you’re still barely speaking by the time the first real thaw arrives.

You wake to the sound of the melting snow dripping noisily from the branches of the trees in the warm light of the sun. You watch from your window a bright red cardinal on a branch, singing its repetitive song, and you wonder where Barbarella Blackbird will end up next. 

It takes 10 days to get the wagons through to the other side of the Grizzlies. Dutch sends Charles, Arthur, Lenny, and Bill ahead to secure the spot he and Arthur found in the weeks prior, and you are recruited to ride shotgun with Hosea in the wagon caravan. 

Once you’re well into the state of Montana, Dutch diverts the wagons to a spot upriver from a city called Waxwood Falls. You claim a hidden cove of woods near a waterfall, and by the time everyone’s settled in, your stitches are ready to come out. You have to turn away when Swanson removes them with tweezers and a small, silver pair of scissors, and it feels more like someone’s pinching you than anything. 

You distract yourself by watching Jack play in the mud with a toy horse. _Poor boy._ It’d do him well to have someone his age around to play with. To socialize with. You wonder what it’d be like if you had a child of your own for him to befriend. Not that it matters. It’s a pretty dream, but that doesn’t make it any less far-off or impossible.

You examine your arm once Swanson tells you he’s done, grimacing at the grisly, scabbed-over pink marks on the inside of your forearm and on your thigh. It’s a good thing you’re known for dressing modestly on stage. There’s no way you’d get away with not covering this up. Still, though, you feel like the scars that are soon to come will make you more intimidating, which is, as far as the gang is concerned, always a good thing.

With your stitches out, you are finally able to return to your usual contributions to camp, which you are glad for. Keeping busy is better than sitting around and feeling useless, with nothing to do but having to actually think about your thoughts. Nothing better to do than brood about Arthur and how awkward things have become since you got injured in the first place. Trying to navigate the confusing feelings about Charles you kept having. 

Charles had been spending more time around you ever since your injury. You guessed initially that it was because he felt guilty. He would ask if he could do things for you, if he could get you anything, if you were in pain, and the like. The other girls had begun to tease you about it, the way they used to tease you about Arthur, but you’d just rolled your eyes and kept it moving. Charles was helpful and kind and good-looking, but he kept things professional between you, for lack of a better word. The girls liked to say he was sweet on you, but his respectful distance told you otherwise. It’s not like he’d made a pass at you, and why would he? He could land any number of women who were far more deserving than you. His humble warmth and reserved nature – among other things – were certainly appealing, but none of that mattered if he wasn’t interested. You tell yourself you wouldn’t want him to be, but then you remember how alone you’d felt since the last night you’d fully spoken to Arthur and your eyes flick to the gruff cowboy, who has been steadily ignoring you since your last conversation. The strange little spat when he’d told you he wasn’t worried about you. He’d tried to retract his words but you didn’t want to hear it. 

He is sitting with Dutch and Hosea, the three of them playing a game of cards. Almost as if he senses you watching, his eyes wander up to meet yours, and you can’t help but make it very obvious when you look away. Swanson leaves you in the medical tent, closing the flap behind him, and you dress before you go to the chuckwagon to help Pearson prepare lunch. You hear the familiar sound of someone chopping wood, and your eyes wander to Charles, who is busy splitting firewood, his muscles showing clearly through his clothing. He swings the axe down in a smooth, practiced motion, and it breaks through the log with a satisfying _crack._ He straightens up and cards his hair from his face, taking a deep breath as he readies another log. When he sets it down, he meets your gaze briefly, and does a double take to smile at you politely. You return the look from your spot by the chuckwagon where you’re plucking the feathers from a chicken, and he goes back to his work.

You glance at Arthur again, who is now watching Charles and scrubbing a hand over his chin. 

If anyone had noticed you spending more time with Charles, surely Arthur had. Maybe it would make him snap out of whatever weird mood he was in and he’d decide to be your friend again. 

You know people have been talking about the lack of camaraderie between you and Arthur by the way they stare at you on the rare occasion that you interact with him, but none of it ever gets back to you directly, except for what Hosea says to you in private. He wants you to be patient with Arthur, just as he wanted you to be patient with John, but whenever you think about your old friend, there’s something still bristling at the back of your mind you can’t put your finger on. Maybe it’s that you thought your friendship with Arthur could potentially become something more. 

You shake your head to shake the thought loose, and decide to bury it. You’d sworn off men long ago. No reason to change that now. Arthur had proven once and for all he _wasn’t_ interested, and you weren’t going to try and change his mind based on a far-fetched guess that he _was._

Though it’s difficult, you try to trust Hosea’s judgment and at least be civil with Arthur. People work together much more fluently when they cooperate, and, much as you hate to admit it, you and Arthur are not excluded from this. You’re forced to come to terms with this fact when you’re put on a lead together by none other than Mr. Matthews himself.

He beckons you over one afternoon, about a week after you’ve settled into the new camp to discuss some scam he’s co-authored with Josiah Trelawny.

Hosea waves Arthur over to join you, and you can see the reluctance in his posture the moment before he trudges over. 

“Mr. Morgan,” you say politely, making sure your voice is unaffected as you nod at him, but you can’t help the warmth stirring in your chest when you look at his _very_ sculpted jaw.

He’d shaved earlier that day, and Karen and Tilly had caught you staring.

 _“That's Johanna's favorite part about Spring,”_ Tilly had said, at which Karen had chortled.

 _“What’s that?”_ Charles had asked, and you’d paled, not even realizing he was standing nearby.

 _“First shave of the season,”_ Karen answered, gesturing towards Arthur. _“It’s what she looks forward to all winter.”_

Charles had given you a wry smile and you’d tried to hide your blush beneath the brim of your hat by looking at your boots.

 _“I do not,”_ you’d said quietly, which had only made Tilly and Karen giggle harder.

 _“Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, honey,”_ Karen had said, and you’d shot her a look that said, _give me a break._

 _“What’s not to like?”_ Charles had said smoothly, giving you an impish grin as he glanced at Arthur, giving you a bit of reprieve from Karen and Tilly’s onslaught. They’d laughed at his comment instead of at your expense, and though you were thankful for the distraction, you weren’t sure you wanted more people to be able to tease you about it.

“Miss Hawkins,” Arthur sighs, pulling you out of your memory of a few hours earlier and obviously trying to hold back his grumpy attitude. 

You sigh inwardly and try to keep your composure.

Hosea talks you through the main details – something about robbing a train from the _inside._ You agree to sign on, and so does Arthur, if only to be the muscle, because he “doesn’t trust that slippery, English bastard” not to run off should things go South.

What Hosea doesn’t tell you – and what you don’t learn until after you’re standing at the bar in the Waxwood saloon – is that you and Arthur are supposed to be acting as newlyweds. 

You both certainly look the part, with your frilly white blouse, dark skirt with gold trim, and Arthur’s black and red tailored suit.

You freeze at the mention of this by Trelawny, unable to keep your eyes from widening. Arthur, on the other hand, practically chokes on his drink, coughing into his hand as he sets the glass down on the counter.

“The Hell you say?!” He sputters, his brows uneven as he gives Trelawny a look that says 

“Hosea didn’t tell you, then?” Trelawny asks with a wry grin. “Oh, dear,” he laughs surreptitiously, a smile crinkling the corners of his mouth as he strokes the curling ends of his mustache. 

You fidget with the hem of your dark skirt as Arthur pats his face and hands dry with the little square bar napkin that had been underneath his glass.

“No,” Arthur says. “That he did not.”

“Well, Mr. Morgan,” you say. “I’m sorry the idea is so outlandish to you.”

He glares at you like he wants to say something but he ultimately holds his tongue.

“Trouble in paradise, eh?” Trelawny asks, invoking even further ire from Arthur, who points a lone finger in Trelawny’s direction.

“You mind your business, will ya?” Arthur growls.

Trelawny shrinks back a bit with a chortle of surrender. “Come now, Arthur, I was only joking.”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t funny,” Arthur tells him with a sour expression. “Let’s just get on with it.”

 _Trouble in paradise,_ you think to yourself. Why would Trelawny say that? He knows the two of you have never been anything more than friends. And it wasn’t like that was going to change anytime soon. You aren’t even certain that’s what you’d want, if it came down to it - and it won’t, because Arthur doesn’t feel that way about you and he’s made it perfectly clear.

“So you’re sticking with the plan, then?” Trelawny asks.

“‘Course I am,” Arthur says indignantly. But even he doesn’t look convinced. He hated these kinds of jobs, but for whatever reason, he was still going to put up with it.

“I don’t mind stepping in on your behalf,” Trelawny offers before flashing you a charming smile. “I’m sure we’d look a bit more of a proper pair than –”

“Shut your mouth,” Arthur says, giving Trelawny a sideways scowl. “We go off the original plan. I ain’t lettin’ you put her,” he gestures to you. “In harm’s way. Probably only turn tail and hide at the first sign of trouble.”

“Oh, come now, Arthur! Give me a little credit!” Trelawny says. “Surely you don’t think I would let any harm befall our lovely Miss Hawkins.”

You roll your eyes. “If y’all are done actin’ like a pair of fools, I’d like to be on my way to the train station.”

You quit the saloon after tossing a coin to the bartender for his trouble, with Josiah and Arthur trailing behind you.

“So,” you begin casually as the three of you make your way to the train station. “What’s our angle, Josiah?”

“Well, this train is bound for New York. I’ve cooked up quite the conniving gold mine investment scheme. You see, the cars are going to be full of rich, venture capitalists, and we are going to convince them to infuse our mining company with cold, hard cash. What they don’t realize, however, is that they will never see a return on their investments. We’ll disembark a few stops down the track and take the horses back to camp straight away.”

“Okay, and who are we supposed to be?” You ask.

“Well, you and I will be brother and sister, of course. We’ve just inherited the family business, which -” he cuts himself off to pull out a forged newspaper clipping of a story about said business striking it rich in California. 

You take the clipping in your hand and examine it. “The McAllisters?”

“Precisely,” Trelawny says. 

“And what am I here for, exactly?” Arthur asks.

“You’re the muscle, of course. But, if anyone gets stingy, we can just flaunt your _new marriage_ in their faces! They’ll be delighted to give a gift, at least. Everyone’s a sucker for true love.”

You roll your eyes. Beside you, Arthur rubs his hand over his brow before his fingers come to pinch the bridge of his nose. At least you’re both in agreement that this is an absolute crock. Trelawny is just being facetious at this point, probably because Hosea told him to. He’s been hinting at you and Arthur finding some kind of reconciliation since shortly after your injury, and knowing Hosea, he wasn’t going to let you hear the end of it.

The three of you lead your horses to the train platform and hand them off to some workers who load the animals into the stable car.

You smooth out your skirt apprehensively as you follow Trelawny to the main platform and try to adopt the personality the dapper man has ascribed to you. You glance at Arthur, who is staring straight ahead, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t an actor, but it was usually enough for him just to stand there looking tough. 

Trelawny pulls something out of his pocket and holds his closed fist out to you. You open your fingers to receive whatever it is, and two wedding bands drop into your palm.

“Well, smarten up, you two! We have to look the part!” Trelawny says, gesturing to the two of you with his cane.

You slide the smaller one onto your ring finger and hand the other one to Arthur. His expression is unusually unreadable as he slips the ring on and waggles his fingers slightly before clenching his fist.

He then attempts to straighten his red satin tie, but only makes it crooked. You turn to him and reach up to fix it for him, and he avoids your eyes mostly, staring instead at the golden, feather clip fastened to the side of your large, black floppy hat. You pray to whoever is listening that you aren’t blushing, but the backs of your ears have begun to burn. Once you’ve fixed his tie, he turns and extends his arm to you without looking at you, and you tuck your fingers into the crook of his elbow. 

Trelawny shows your tickets to the attendant, and Arthur helps you up the steps of the train before following behind you, and the three of you find your seats. You watch out the window as more guests file into the cars, and before long, the train lurches forward slightly when its brakes release, and you hear the engine begin to huff and puff as the train pulls forward sluggishly. 

You hang off Arthur’s arm as you and Trelawny talk up all manner of well-to-do people in the car with you. You’ve been known to have a silver tongue, but Trelawny was a natural charmer and showman; he always made it look effortless. Before you know it, you’ve caught the attention of several interested parties, and have been offered several investments.

You and Trelawny toast drinks with a stout man with an impressively-curled mustache, but right as you’re about to take a sip, the train lurches forward once more, startling everyone on-board. You lose your glass and your footing, not used to your high-heeled boots, but you’re caught before you can even really fall over. You feel one arm wrap quickly around your waist, and look up into the face of your rescuer to find Arthur’s familiar blue eyes staring right into your soul. Your breath hitches in your chest at just how remarkable he is, just how attentively he’s looking at you, how delicately he’s holding you. 

The both of you wince from the loud sound of the train’s brakes squealing, and the moment is gone. He stands you up and clears his throat as he lets you go, and you offer a quick, quiet word of thanks. The other passengers are also recovering, helping one another up or dabbing at spilled drinks on their clothing. 

“Heavens,” Trelawny says, looking down disapprovingly at the wet patch of champagne on his shirt. “What was that all about?”

The other passengers are mumbling to themselves and each other, whispering worriedly and holding hands to their mouths as they crane their necks to look out the windows. 

“Why have we stopped?” The mustached man asks, narrowing his eyebrows at a young attendant trying to clean up a spill on the carpet. 

He looks up at the man with confusion written plain on his face and says, “I don’t know, sir,” before returning to his work.

“This can’t be good,” Arthur breathes in irritation, glancing out the windows. You look with him and you both notice the same thing at the same time: three riders, passing beside your car, presumably on their way to the front, garbed in black save for a green bandana pulled up around their faces.

You both mumble the same expletive _– shit –_ under your breath, and exchange a glance.

“What is it?” Trelawny asks, trying to keep his voice down.

“Now _we’re_ bein’ robbed,” Arthur answers, matching Trelawny’s hushed tone.

“Robbed?” A plump woman asks, her eyes wide beneath the brim of her large, white, feathered hat. She and several other passengers gasp and clutch their pearls – literally – and the atmosphere in the car goes from posh and relaxed to fearful and frantic as the people in the room with you realize all at once that they are just prey waiting to be struck down. You wonder if this is how it feels to be part of a stampede just before a wolf strikes the outer edge of the herd.

“Damn O’Driscolls,” you growl quietly. They were a nasty bunch, and though you'd only had a couple of run-ins with them personally, you had heard tell of Dutch's general animosity toward their leader, Colm. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur thinks aloud, looking around as if trying to figure it out. 

Before he can arrive at a conclusion, an O’Driscoll slams open the door to the train car, startling most everyone and sending them into a heightened state of panic. He climbs inside the car, a nasty look in his eye as his gaze sweeps over the room. He’s got a burlap sack in his grimy hands, just waiting to be filled with whatever goods he can pry from the clutches of your fellow passengers.

Another O’Driscoll comes in behind the first, with shaggy hair and a scar over his left eye. He’s carrying a repeater and pointing it in people’s faces as he walks by.

“Ladies and gents, this is a robbery,” he says, his voice deep and raspy, the ghost of an Irish accent lilting his words. “Hand over everythin’ ya got.”

The O’Driscolls creep down the aisle, and you can sense the sneers hidden beneath their masks, their lips curling up over their yellowed and crooked teeth. They loudly and rudely order people to hand over their money and valuables. 

Some older gentleman responds with resistance: “I won’t give anything to you degenerates.” 

The O’Driscoll with the bag steps back after a moment, letting Scar Eye step forward. He hits the gentleman over the head with the butt of his repeater, opening a gash on his temple. The man’s head snaps sideways as his back collides with the back of the seat from the force of the blow, and his wife squeals in terror at his side, begging him to hand over his things.

The pair of O’Driscolls continue their rampage down the rest of the aisle, the bag of forked-over valuables sagging more and more. Finally, they reach Trelawny, sitting just up and to the left one seat from you and Arthur. Scar Eye targets him, while the one with the bag targets you.

“Everythin’ in the bag, miss,” he says, and you don’t give him the satisfaction of frightening you.

“No,” is all you say, holding up your hand as you examine your nails nonchalantly.

This confuses and irritates Bag Man, prompting him to narrow his eyes at you and raise his voice. “No?”

“That’s right,” you say with a nod.

He laughs in irritation. “Brave one, aren’t ya?”

“I just ain’t scared of Colm O’Driscoll’s battle fodder.”

The mention of Colm’s name puts him off his guard, and brings the other man’s attention away from Trelawny and onto you.

Bag Man leers at you. “I like a woman with a smart mouth like that.”

Arthur steps in front of you, guarding you with his hulking body. “Better watch yours,” he growls, his voice low and full of warning.

You try not to scowl at him. You didn’t need him to protect you. You could handle yourself.

“Or what?” Bag Man asks.

“You _really_ wanna find out?” Arthur grinds out.

The two O’Driscolls laugh as they exchange a look.

“How you know Colm, anyway?” Scar Eye asks you, looking around Arthur’s arm at you with an unnerving smile creasing the corners of his eyes.

“She don’t know him,” Bag Man argues. “She’s just talkin’ out of her arse.”

“Bet she’d like to,” Scar Eye comments, giving you a salacious once-over.

“That’s enough,” Arthur snarls, taking a step forward to put even more space between you and the O’Driscoll men, but Scar Eye points his repeater at Arthur’s chest to push him back.

“Ah, ah,” Scar Eye says scoldingly. He laughs when Arthur is forced to back off, but then turns his attention back to you. “Give us everythin’ ya got. No more games.” He nudges his head towards you, his eyes trained on your pochette.

You give him an exaggeratedly fake, tight-lipped smile as you open your pochette and reach into it. “Sweetheart,” you say, meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I’ve had about enough of this. How ‘bout you?”

He catches your look, glancing at the hand you’ve got perched inside your purse, and even though things have been tense between the two of you for weeks now, you feel that familiar sense of understanding pass between you.

“Reckon I agree with ya,” Arthur replies.

“Enough talk,” Bag Man shouts. “Give it up or you ge–”

Before he can finish the thought, you and Arthur act at the same time: you whip out a very small, two-barrel pistol from your purse and point it right at Bag Man’s face, and Arthur takes advantage of Scar Eye’s surprise by wrenching the repeater from his hands and bashing him in the head with it. Scar Eye falls to the floor, landing flat on his back, and Bag Man flinches backward, catching himself by grabbing the back of a seat.

The other passengers react accordingly: some gasp, some applaud, and others look on with silent apprehension.

“You’re openin’ a can of worms, friend,'' Scar Eye snarls, propping himself up on his elbows. Blood is dripping from his forehead where Arthur hit him with the repeater.

“We ain’t friends,” Arthur snaps, glowering. “Get up.”

Scar Eye picks himself up after giving Arthur a nasty scowl, holding his hands up in surrender as he backs down the aisle. 

“Drop it,” you command, glancing at the sack, and Bag Man obeys. It thunks to the floor, and you hear a short clatter of coins, pocket watches, and other trinkets.

“What’re you gonna do now?” Bag Man asks as he takes a step back with his hands up. “Rest o’ the boys ain’t gonna just let you walk out of this like that.”

“I’ll take my chances,” you say firmly.

“You don’t have but two shots in that thing,” Bag Man laughs cruelly.

“Good thing there’s only two of you, then,” you reply.

“We got the train surrounded,” Scar Eye interjects. “You ain’t gonna make it.”

“Guess we’ll see,” Arthur says.

You keep your eye on Bag Man as you and Arthur walk him and Scar Eye toward the front door. You hear shouting and shooting coming from the front of the train and guess that whatever guards are on-board have begun fighting back.

Before you can look to Arthur for a clue as to what comes next, Bag Man makes a sudden move for the pistol on his hip, and time seems to slow down as you watch it happen: he pulls it from his off-hand holster and draws it on Arthur, and before you even realize it, you’ve squeezed down the trigger on your derringer. Your shot tears through Bag Man’s right shoulder, throwing off his aim, and his gun goes off just in time to miss its original target. The bullet lodges in the ceiling of the train car instead of ripping through any part of Arthur’s flesh as you’d initially feared. Time catches up with itself as Bag Man falls to the ground at Scar Eye’s feet, blood spewing from the wound in his shoulder.

For a moment, you’re back in that familiar theater, watching yourself stand there with a smoking gun, a stunned look on your face, still as the surface of untouched waters even as your surroundings finally erupt from the prolonged panic. People are screaming, ducking underneath seats, trying to flee out of the back door of the car, and Scar Eye has begun to shout for help. Your head whips around when you hear the rear door of the car slide open, only to watch as the first helpless passenger to reach it is blown away by an O’Driscoll with a shotgun. 

You watch yourself aim at the stout man, seeing his gun pointed at Arthur, and your automatic reaction takes over once more as you shoot this O’Driscoll like you shot the other. He doesn’t fall as easily as your first target, but he doesn’t make it another step before he’s shot twice more by Arthur. The man groans as he collapses sideways into the floor between two seats and you look to your pretend-husband to find his eyes already trained on you. Arthur then snatches up Bag Man’s pistol and hands it to you. You neither resist nor protest when he lays a hand down on your back and urges you toward the rear door of the car. The movement brings you back to yourself, and the sensation of your body growing fast and loose from the adrenaline in your veins threatens to put you off-balance. Then, as if he’s read your mind, Arthur is there, his palm resting delicately against the small of your back to ensure that you don’t trip when you step over the legs of Shotgun O’Driscoll when you pass him.

“We need to get outta here,” Arthur calls, speaking more to Trelawny than to you, but you still nod to him as you brace yourself against the wall on one side of the opening. Arthur braces against the other side and Trelawny cowers behind you.

“Where to?” Trelawny asks, his usually chipper tone turned loud and confused by the intensity of the moment.

One of the windows to your right shatters as a shot rings out from outside the train, and you duck away from the flying shards of glass.

“Stable car,” Arthur replies, meeting your gaze and making you remember that you have a way out of this.

“And how, pray tell, are we going to get there?” Trelawny inquires.

“We go down the middle,” Arthur answers. “Let’s get a move on. Miss Hawkins,” he says, getting your attention. “Need you to cover me.”

You nod absently, and he glances out the door to check if the coast is clear. He then meets your eyes once again, his brows rising up to ask if you’re ready to go, and you nod. He moves across the threshold between the cars, offering you his hand to help you across. You take it, coming to stand at his back. You glance between either side, looking for movement, and you hear him pull open the car door before someone shouts something in a thick Irish accent. You flinch when the repeater in Arthur’s hands goes off again, and hear more frightened screams from inside. Arthur returns his hand to your back as he ushers you inside. Trelawny follows behind you, with Arthur bringing up the rear after he closes the door behind him, and the three of you make your way down the center of the car, crouching slightly.

Someone loudly and frantically cries out to ask what’s going on and where you’re off to, and Trelawny answers for the three of you.

“We’re being robbed, you fool! I’m not sticking around another minute!”

With help from Arthur, you easily hop over the fallen O’Driscoll and reach the rear door, arranging yourself the same way as last time, and Arthur checks through the window before pulling the door open. You follow him out, pressing your back to his once more to cover him, and as he is pulling the next door open, you see an O’Driscoll strafe past on a horse. You take aim but do not fire, as he is moving too fast, and Arthur carefully pulls you into the car after him.

When you turn around, you find that this isn’t another passenger car, but a luggage car complete with a safe, several cabinets, and two storage chests. When Trelawny comes in, his eyes light up when they find the safe, and Arthur furrows his brow at the man.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Arthur warns. “We ain’t got time fer this.”

“There’s always time for a safe, my boy,” Trelawny argues, jangling the sack that Bag Man had been holding.

Your eyebrows quirk up. You hadn’t even seen him grab it. Maybe you’d get out of this bungled heist with a little bit of a payout anyway.

Trelawny pulls out a lock-breaker and goes straight for the big metal box.

Arthur makes a sound of exasperation as he glances around. “Fine,” he huffs out. “Just make it quick.” He goes to the rear door and puts his back against the wall beside it, gesturing to you and then the door you just came in through.

You nod, understanding what he means, and mirror his action.

While you wait, your mind starts to race with what-ifs, and you flinch at every other shot that rings out from further up the train. Either the O’Driscolls underestimated the firepower of the guards on this train, or they can’t shoot worth a damn - either way, it sounds like there’s a hell of a fight going on, which is a perfect distraction for you and your companions to get out safely.

You look at Arthur, who is cautiously watching through the small window in the door and holding the repeater with both hands, and you remember the sight of the O’Driscolls you shot in his defense. You’d killed a man. Actually killed someone, on purpose, with a gun. It was in self-defense, in defense of Arthur, but… did that make it right? Even so, what if you had missed? What if you hadn’t reacted in time? Arthur could’ve been killed – you wince when you imagine the bullet entering his head, his eyes rolling back in their sockets as blood pours out of his skull. He could’ve died, and you’d be left behind without him, left to get yourself out of this mess, left behind to wander this world without the security you’d learned from being at his side -

_Oh._

You meet his eyes, a chill of realization sweeping up your spine, and you finally understand his behavior the last several weeks. His too-respectful distance, the forehead kiss, his relative silence and bad mood. He _was_ mourning the possibility of your death. That had to be it. That had to mean something.

The safe clicks open and Trelawny begins stuffing its loot into the bag just as you hear the hoofbeats coming back around. You listen, waiting apprehensively, but the rider passes the car completely, and you follow Arthur and Trelawny out the back door and into the next car.

The next one is a supplies storage car, full of foods and other perishables, and the one following that is a freezer car, in which several racks of meat are hanging. Finally, you reach the stable car, and you each go to your respective mounts. Arthur waves for you to join him at the side door and when you do, he pulls it open. You squint in the sunlight that pours in, and cover him while he places the ramp down.

He takes Boadicea’s reins and leads her down the ramp, glancing around carefully as he does, and you follow behind him with Erebus. You beckon Trelawny to come behind you with his brown Appaloosa, Gwydion, but before the horse makes it all the way down, you hear encroaching gunfire and a bullet just barely misses you, whizzing past your head and making you duck so quickly that you almost fall over. A dull sting of pain stabs its way through your right thigh, and you grimace as you try to regain your footing. 

Arthur sees you almost get hit and he reacts by snapping the repeater up in the direction of the shot and firing away. He pulls the lever once, twice, three times as he fires at a target outside your line of sight, and you assume he’s felled them by the way he turns back to you and hurries you up onto the back of your horse.

You swing your leg over the saddle, careful not to tangle your skirts, and take the reins. Arthur climbs onto Boadicea, and Trelawny hoists himself into his saddle once he gets control of Gwydion.

A distant voice shouts from up ahead: “Hey! Those three are gettin’ away!”

“Let’s go!” Arthur says, spurring Boadicea forward.

You follow his direction and do the same, and the three of you race away from the train as fast as your horses can carry you. The noise of your horses’ hooves thundering against the earth drowns out the loud voices following you, but when you look behind you, you see that the O’Driscolls aren’t giving chase.

* * *

Arthur doesn’t slow your stampede until he’s sure that you aren’t being followed, but the whole ride feels like a haze of brown and green and white as you go, continuing to picture the men you killed in your mind’s eye. He pulls his horse to a stop in a snow-melted, golden patch of grass, and you do the same, but it is not a very conscious effort. You stare blankly at Arthur’s mouth as he and Trelawny exchange a few words. Trelawny holds up the bag off loot, smirking knowingly as he talks, but it’s all rather muted. You squint at them as you try to read their lips, and find yourself confused when Arthur scowls at the dapper trickster to your left. Surely he’s just telling Trelawny to split the loot and to return to camp without being followed. That was only routine. But then you hear your name, and all of the world’s sounds start to fade back in as you catch the tail-end of their argument.

“You coulda gotten her killed!” Arthur exclaims.

“Come now, Arthur,” Trelawny says. “Miss Hawkins is far more capable of defending herself than I am. I promise you, I did not know they had plans to rob the same train as us,” Trelawny says firmly.

“You better not have,” Arthur grumbles.

“How could I have known?” Trelawny asks. “I appreciate your faith in my ability to sniff out information, but even I don’t know what those feral Irish bastards get up to.”

The grumpy look of suspicion on Arthur’s face does not fade with this, but he lets up regardless. “Alright. But if you’re lyin’, you better hope I don’t find out about it.” Arthur climbs down off of Boadicea and cards his fingers through his hair.

Trelawny gives him a tired look, but he agrees.

“Best gimme that,” Arthur sighs, gesturing to Trelawny’s bag of loot. “Don’t want you gettin’ robbed on the way back to camp.”

Trelawny hands over the sack and Arthur ties it off to his saddle. He bids the two of you farewell before taking his leave, tipping his hat to the two of you, and you watch him disappear over the hill in front of you.

You’re left sitting there on Erebus’ back, your mind swimming in the haze of your unanswered what-ifs and the quiet shock of having just killed two men. Your stomach starts to churn, and you let your eyelids fall closed as you try to keep yourself from vomiting.

“What a mess,” Arthur breathes.

You nod absently without looking away from the top of the hill where you last saw Trelawny. The blood you spilled earlier flashes into your mind once more and you tear your eyes away from the grassy hilltop to find Arthur. He’s standing a few feet to the left of your horse, eyeing you carefully. 

A stagnant silence passes between you as you try, to no avail, to gather your disorganized thoughts. You decide to join him, swinging your leg over the saddle to climb down, but your thigh is still a bit tender, and you lose your balance just before you land. Gentle, calloused hands catch your waist and steady you, and you feel yourself flush from the contact as you turn to face Arthur. He lets go of you and gives you an apologetic half-smile.

“Careful,” he says gently, seemingly unable to meet your eyes as he takes a step back to give you space.

He clears his throat, and you both speak at the same time:

“Miss Hawkins -”

“Mister Morgan -”

You both pause and share a clumsy, half-hearted smile.

He holds his hand out to you. “You first.”

You swallow as your mouth goes dry and everything you’d thought to say evaporates. “No, you can go ahead.” You take off your gaudy flop hat and prop it on the horn of your saddle.

He raises his eyebrows at you as if to ask if you’re sure, and you wave him off.

“Thought maybe we should talk,” he tells you.

You nod.

“I wanted to apologize,” he says with difficulty. “For bein’ a horse’s ass.” He glances up at you as if to gauge your reaction before he continues. “Truth is, I _was_ worried.”

“Then why’ve you been givin’ me the silent treatment for the last month? Why did you say you weren’t?”

“Because I was tryin’ to convince myself that I wasn’t,” he explains. 

“Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?” You ask, letting yourself sound as hurt as you really are.

“Yes – no –” He stammers. “I got some notion.”

“So, what, then? You just wanted to keep up appearances?” You ask. You can’t bite your tongue about it any longer. 

“No,” Arthur answers defensively.

“Are you even gonna bother to tell me?” You ask, planting your hands on your hips.

“Because you scared the Hell outta me,” he admits brusquely, narrowing his brow at you. 

“Why didn’t you just _say_ that?”

“What was I supposed to do, give you a lecture about gettin’ yourself lost in the woods and half-eaten while you were laid up with all them stitches in your arm?”

“At least I would’ve expected that,” you reply sharply. “Instead you just pretended like I didn’t exist. And I wasn’t lost! Charles was there! He tracked me down, that’s what he does.”

“What if he hadn’t?”

“I can take care of myself, Arthur.”

“I know that,” he tells you. “I ain’t sayin’ you can’t, I’m just –” he cuts himself off before his voice gets too loud, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What if he’d shown up with your lifeless corpse? How you expect that makes me feel?”

“Well, how am I s’posed to know that if you don’t tell me?”

“It ain’t that simple,” he growls.

“It _is,”_ you argue, stomping your foot. “I get it. You want folks to think you’re the Big Bad Wolf. That you’re mean or heartless or that you don’t care. That might be fine for everybody else, but, _damn it,_ Arthur,” you say, exasperated. “I _know_ you. And you don’t _get_ to pretend that I don’t. Much as it irritates me to say it now, you’re about the best friend I’ve ever had. And I thought that went both ways.”

He looks ashamed. 

“I know you’ve lost people, Arthur.” Your voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Lost your son.” He closes his eyes for a moment, his shoulders rising and falling with a ragged breath. “And I hope you know how sorry I am for it. But you ain’t the only one.”

For whatever reason, he cocks his head at that just slightly, his eyes searching yours, but he doesn’t interrupt you.

“Today, when that O’Driscoll almost shot you, I was afraid. I realized how you must’ve felt when I got hurt. And I’m sorry I made you and everyone else worry. But I’m still here! So I’d appreciate it if you’d quit actin’ like I’ve gone and died.”

He looks away from you, shifting his weight and seemingly letting the full gravity of your words hit him.

“I ain’t askin’ for more than you’re willin’ to give,” you continue, quieter this time. “But I _would_ appreciate it if you didn’t walk you an’ me back to square one anytime one of us gets hurt. Please. You wanna push everybody else away when they get too close, I can’t stop you, but,” you pause, wringing your hands as you prepare to make yourself finish the thought: “But not me. You don’t get to do that to me.”

You don’t know what you expect to happen next. Maybe that he’ll be angry with you. He ought to be. He ought to reprimand you for raising your voice, ought to put you in your place. He ought to haul off and hit you. 

What he does instead unnerves you more than the thought of violence. His stormy expression calms and his scowl softens into a frown.

“Alright,” he says. 

Living inside your gilded cage was scarcely pleasant, but at least things made sense in there.

“What?” You ask.

“I said, alright,” he tells you. He then breathes out a long sigh while scratching his head. “You’re right.”

“I am?” You ask quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly, and you carefully let out the breath you’d been holding. “I’ve been a terrible fool. And I’m sorry for it.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You’re right. You _do_ know me. Better’n most. I don’t guess I realized you felt that way.”

“You didn’t realize we were friends?” You ask him bemusedly.

“Well, you know me. You know I ain’t famous for my intellect,” he says. He sighs harshly, ashamedly, before he continues: “Think you can ever forgive me?”

One corner of your mouth turns up as you feel the fire of betrayal and resentment in your chest begin to recede. It wouldn’t yet wither entirely; you need time to let the embers die out, and you need him to prove that he was sorry by changing his ways, but if Arthur was anything, he was reliable, and he always kept his word. 

“Yes,” you reply. “Eventually.”

“Well, I won’t hold my breath,” he jokes, almost shyly. “Only person I know can hold a grudge as long as me is you.”

You hide your reluctant chuckle behind your hand, and he gives you an uneven grin. The wind picks up and a chill prickles its way up your back as you smooth your hands on your skirt and take a deep breath. You glance at Erebus and Boadicea, who are grazing lazily in the sun, the yellow grass swaying in the breeze.

“Guess we should get back to camp,” you suggest, unsure of yourself.

“Before we go,” Arthur responds, stopping you. “Wanted to say thank you,” he continues, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “For savin’ my skin back there. Twice.”

“Of course,” you say automatically, as if you would’ve done anything other than keep him safe.

“You did well today,” he adds, looking at his boots.

“Thanks,” you say, but it feels empty. 

“I know that ain’t usually how your jobs are s’posed to go, but… well, you didn’t lose your head, and you kept me from gettin’ shot. So, good job.”

“Feels strange to be complimented on killing someone.”

He watches you, as if realizing that was your first time taking a life. 

“I feel… awful,” you confess quietly.

“Well, I’d wager your reaction’s ‘bout normal. Good people don’t usually like killin’ folk.” 

You chuckle, but it sounds dry and bitter, and the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“Somethin’ funny?” Arthur asks obliviously.

“I’m not a good person, Arthur,” you tell him.

“And how’s that?” He inquires, squinting at you.

“I –'' You hesitate. _I’m just_ not. _I am utterly and fundamentally defective._ You remain silent for a long time.

Arthur is the one who breaks the silence: “Feel like we’ve had this conversation before,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his beard. “Long time ago, right after you first joined up, think it was. Only, last time, you dodged the question.”

You watch him cross his arms and lean one shoulder against a tree, and the memory comes back to you little by little: the day Arthur had killed Ivan, he’d come to you that night in the pasture to apologize to you. To make things right. The moon shone brilliantly down over the both of you as you stood at Erebus’ side, keeping yourself busy so you didn’t have to go to sleep and face the nightmares that awaited you.

You’d said: _“I don’t know why I was so upset today when you killed Ivan. He was a very bad man and I was terrified of him for years. He deserved what he got.”_

And Arthur had responded: _“Well, I guess you had about as normal a reaction as any other decent person.”_

 _“I don’t_ feel _like a decent person,”_ you’d replied somberly.

 _“What’chu mean?”_ He’d asked.

And, like he said, you’d changed the subject.

You hadn’t been with the gang for more than a few weeks by that point, but apparently he’d held onto your words like they mattered. You wonder if he’d written them down in his journal. If he’s ever written about you.

“Would’ve thought you’d forgotten about that,” you admit, brushing a hair behind your ear as you let your gaze flit away from him. “That’s been… God, six years ago now?”

He nods, seemingly in disbelief. “Guess it has.”

“Why did you remember that?” You ask without stopping to think about whether or not you should.

Arthur pauses. Looks at his boots again, then back to you. “Guess I wanted to know the answer.”

 _But why?_ Wasn’t that why anyone asked questions? Wasn’t that enough? You’d lived behind a wall for so long – locked yourself inside that closed door in your heart for _so long –_ didn’t Arthur deserve to be let in? Hadn’t he earned it? Six years and hundreds, if not thousands, of miles. You knew him, had seen him at his lowest, and so, wasn’t it only fair that he knew you too? In all the time you’d spent at his side, all the stolen glances, the entire conversations in silence or in the briefest of touches. Wasn’t it more than enough?

“Ain’t gonna make you talk about it if you don’t want to, but… What did you mean, when you said I wasn’t the only one who’d lost a son?” 

You freeze, your stomach coming alive with the beating wings of a thousand angry insects.

“Hosea mentioned… well, he said you wouldn’t tell him why I still hadn’t forgiven John, and I wanted to thank you for keepin’ it to yourself. But I started thinkin’ about why _you_ haven't forgiven him either. Why you were so close with Eliza. And Isaac,” he continues, and his voice cracks when he says his son’s name. “And why you helped me bury them. Why you helped me hunt that _bastard_ down. Why you’re so protective of Jack.”

You gulp, the color receding from your skin, tears filling your eyes.

“I got to thinkin’ about Mr. Dulvey, and that mark on your neck,” he gestures to you. “And just now, you said I wasn’t the only one who’d lost people. Maybe it ain’t my place, but I keep wonderin’ if you lost one of your own. If Mr. Dulvey… was responsible.”

You expect to feel angry. Or sad. Or _anything._ But you just feel empty. It’s all twisting and swirling far above you, out of reach, and you can’t _feel_ it. You can only _think_ it. 

You knew Arthur. Did that mean he _wanted_ to know you? It was only fair, right? An equitable exchange of information between the two of you, at his behest? You want so badly for him to think well of you, to think you are beauty and grace even though you know in your bones that you aren’t; you’re bitter and broken and barren, a flagrant fraud, a trickster dressed in a small woman’s skin. He deserved better than your lie. You knew many of his truths, wasn’t it past time he knew one of yours? But if you fall apart now, would you ever be able to stop? Would you continue to crumble until you were nothing but dust?

“Benjamin,” you mutter, and it’s the first time you’ve ever said your child’s name aloud. “Dalton didn’t kill him. I did.”

The words seem to come from you on their own, despite all of the effort you’ve put into hiding them. You panic internally, trying to plug the holes in your heart’s dam, behind which you’ve forced all the troubled waters of your most heinous secret.

Arthur’s expression softens. “I don’t believe that for a second,” he mutters. “How?”

“The same way I killed my mother, when I was born,” you confess, seemingly unable to stop the sob story spouting from your lips. Against your better judgment and your inner turmoil, you can’t stop the flood. “I don’t feel like a decent person because I’m _not._ I’ve got poison inside of me.” You rest a hand on your abdomen. “And my whole life – Dalton – was meant to be my punishment for it.”

“Johanna…” He says your name with such tenderness then, so much more than you feel you deserve, and all at once you feel paper-thin and more vulnerable than you ever have before. Sure enough, it’s all pouring from you and you can’t stop it.

“He was so _furious_ with me,” you croak out, unable to meet Arthur’s eyes. “I lost his only heir. I couldn’t –” you stammer, a sob wracking your form as you come to press a palm against the tree for support while you hide your face in the other. “And then. He wanted to try again. He _made me._ It didn’t matter how many times I said no, he _–”_ you cry.

“Hey,” Arthur says, and you look to see him approaching you with an outstretched hand. He hesitates for a moment before he rests it down on your arm, and when you don’t flinch out of his grasp, he very carefully pulls you into an embrace.

You wrap your arms around him and grasp at the fabric of his suit jacket, your bottom lip quivering involuntarily as you rest your cheek against his chest. He runs one hand up and down your back slowly, cradling the back of your head with the other, and you realize just how starved you are for closeness. 

“You’re alright,” he says, his chin propped on the top of your head, his voice hushed and filled with all the softness he usually reserved for when he spoke to a frightened animal, and then some. “I’m sorry.”

You try to hold back your trembling form, your overflow of tears, the awful, raw sound of your throat when you sob, but when it rains, it pours, and you were stranded in sea of your own making.

You can't even begin to think about what this means, what it would mean if you wanted Arthur to hold you like this always.

The two of you stay like that a while longer, until you’ve cried yourself out and effectively stained his dress shirt with the makeup you’d been wearing on your eyes. He lets you go and hands you a handkerchief from his pocket and you dab at your face with it. 

"Sorry about your shirt," you mutter, and he shrugs with an easy smile. 

"I ain't worried 'bout it. Got a change of clothes on my saddle, anyway."

You sniffle. "Thank you. I'm sorry you had to see all that."

"Y'ain't gotta be sorry," he tells you. "You gonna be alright?"

You nod. 

"Okay then," he breathes. "I'm gonna head back to camp, turn in this money before anybody gets any funny ideas."

"Alright. Think I'll stay here a while," you say. "Collect myself before I head back."

"Sounds good. Wouldn't wanna ruin your Iron Woman reputation, showin' up with your eyes all puffy like that."

You manage to crack a smile, and he looks satisfied with himself for having earned it from you. 

"Be seein' you, Johanna," he says gently, climbing into the saddle. 

"Be seein' you, Arthur,'' you return, and Boadicea carries him over the hill, leaving you alone with your old hurts, and that persistent inability to think you deserve other people’s kindness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yee: haw  
> Hey, cowpokes. Told you they wouldn't stay mad at each other long :)  
> Thank you to my faithful, lovely readers and my regular commenters. Y'all give me the strength to keep putting my heart on the page each week!  
> Some people were asking what Arthur looks like in this story/my game, so I've made a post full of my personal screencaps which you can find [here.](https://imgur.com/a/mtq4cRz)  
> I also made some new art for Johanna that I'm pretty proud of, which is [here.](https://imgur.com/a/pCCPZ91)  
> Just a heads-up: next week's chapter may or may not be a little late. Thank you for your patience <3


	13. Snake Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ain't no mercy  
>  In my smiling  
> Only fangs and  
> [Sweet beguiling](https://youtu.be/pHQUfgq1seM)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for some sexual harassment and general sexism throughout the second half of the chapter.

_I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Morgan._

Arthur calls after you but you do not look back. He sighs, listening to your footsteps echo down the hall before they disappear entirely. He curses inwardly at his foolishness. His lack of sophistication with women-folk was charming as ever. 

_Maybe it's better this way,_ he thinks. After all, it's for your own good that you don't get close to him. It would be better for you both. No strings tethering either of you to the other. No strings tethering you to him only for him to weigh you down. No pain for either of you when those strings were inevitably cut.

That’s what he’d thought, and what he’d tried to convince himself of, until he’d played pretend on the train and imagined what it'd be like to marry you; until he’d seen you cry, until he’d heard you confess the death of your son, your shoulders slouching forward like the weeping willow, with all the weight of the world resting on its branches.

No wonder you’d been so taken with Eliza and Isaac. No wonder you were so protective of Jack. It all makes sense now why you’d wanted to hunt down Robert or Richard, whatever his name was. 

He sits on Boadicea’s back as she carries him back to camp, thinking of you with tears left sitting on your cheeks, of the way his resolve to push you away had worn down over the weeks since your fight, how glad he was to finally be back on speaking terms with you. Perhaps it was a selfish indulgence, but he was beyond relieved to have his best friend back, and beyond relieved to finally have your differences resolved. 

As he approaches camp, someone - Charles - calls out to him.

“Who’s there?” Charles calls sharply.

“It’s Arthur,” he answers, waving to Charles. “Comin’ in.”

“Welcome back,” Charles says with a patient smile. “Wasn’t too sure how far behind Trelawny you’d be.”

Arthur watches Charles’ eyes scan the trail behind Boadicea. “Miss Hawkins will be along shortly. Thought it’d be best to split up after the job.”

Charles nods and goes back to his post, sitting beneath the tree beside him. “Wanted to say, you clean up well.” He gestures casually to Arthur’s fancy getup.

“Well,” Arthur sighs. “Bar’s pretty low, even for me. But, thank you.”

Charles hums a short laugh. “You’re welcome.”

Arthur wonders to himself what Charles had meant when he’d told him he cleaned up well. Arthur had seldom been told by others - let alone other men - that he was aesthetically pleasing. Naturally, he was inclined to disagree, but that Charles felt that way gave him a quiet satisfaction. If Arthur was honest, Charles wasn’t so bad himself; all silken black hair and dark stubble, with that scar on his cheek and the sensitive, thoughtful look in his eye. He certainly couldn’t blame you for spending more time with him in the last few weeks.

Arthur hitches Boadicea at her post and heads straight for his tent, only to be intercepted by Dutch and Hosea waving him over. He sighs to himself and joins them at Dutch’s tent.

“What’s this I hear about O’Driscolls runnin’ about?” Dutch asks. “Trelawny says they took that train right out from underneath us.”

“Reckon it was the other way around,” Arthur says. “Seemed like they had been plannin’ that robbery for a while. There sure were plenty of ‘em. And they had the train locked down pretty quick.”

Hosea scrubs a hand over his chin in thought and Dutch breathes out a sigh of frustration.

“Good news is,” Arthur adds, handing over the bag of valuables. “We still made it out with a pretty good take. It weren’t for nothin’.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” Hosea says.

“I don’t know about you,” Dutch replies. “But I don’t much care for the idea of fightin’ those Irish mongrels for scraps all the way up here.”

“So, what?” Hosea inquires. “You wanna pack up and leave? Still could. Ain’t too settled in yet.”

“Leave?” Dutch responds, disbelief clear in his voice. “You wanna give up? Submit our territory to Colm O’Driscoll?”

“Well, no, not really,” Hosea says. “But if they’re already established up here, we might as well quit while we’re ahead. We’ve got true loyalty, but they’ve got numbers, Dutch. It don’t make sense to pour our efforts into controlling this area. You said it yourself, we’d be fightin’ for scraps.”

Dutch makes a thoughtful sound as he leans back in his chair.

“What you wanna do, Dutch?” Arthur asks.

“I ain’t made no decisions yet,” Dutch answers after a moment’s contemplation. “I say we give it a few weeks. See if they really are up here in force.”

“Okay then,” Arthur nods. 

Dutch smiles to himself then, starting to laugh. “Guess you were right about things goin’ south. Trelawny looked white as a sheet when he got back. ‘Least he didn’t run off on you entirely, I guess.”

“Yes, he proved to be just as useless as I suspected,” Arthur jokes, shifting his weight to one foot. “Johanna, though, she held her own. Impressed the hell outta me. Kept me from gettin’ shot, twice.”

Dutch and Hosea’s brows advance toward their hairlines as they marvel in silence at Arthur’s high opinion of you.

“And Johanna’s alright?” Hosea asks.

“Shook her up a bit, but she’s fine,” Arthur confirms. “You know how she is.”

“That I do,” Hosea nods with a proud grin. “Little but fierce.”

“Should be back any minute now,” Arthur adds, gesturing vaguely toward the front entrance of camp.

Dutch and Hosea exchange a knowing look which makes the backs of Arthur’s ears burn.

“I take it the two of you finally made up, then?” Dutch ponders, giving Arthur a wry smile. 

Arthur rolls his eyes as he turns slightly away from them. They both chuckle quietly at him.

“Well, good,” Hosea says, an impish smile creasing his features. “It’s about time. People were startin’ to place bets on how much longer it would take.”

_Yeah, as if you didn’t somehow engineer to put the two of us in danger so we’d have to make up,_ Arthur wants to say, but he holds his tongue, and retires to his tent.

He takes a seat at his side table and removes his hat, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm before he pulls out his sketchbook and thumbs to a new page.

He lets his mind wander as his pencil starts to ghost over the page as he lays the foundation for an image that will take up the space of both pages. The lines weave and intersect across the centerfold of his journal as he builds the memory of you and your gun on the train from the ground up.

You hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other for weeks, but you’d still decided then and there that his life was worth saving. You hadn’t been in usual contact with him for weeks, but the two of you still had your unspoken language, natural as ever, and for that he was incredibly grateful. It was a gift unlike any other to have someone who could understand you without being asked, who could read you and take guidance from your subtleties in the heat of action.

He fills out the lines, defining some and smudging others, and the image of you standing there with your little derringer pointed straight ahead starts to become clearer. He thinks of the costume wedding rings the two of you had worn together, of how beautiful you’d looked in your fancy dress. How lucky he was to play pretend with you hanging off his arm, to have you smile at him and call him sweetheart. How enamored he was with your courage, with your adaptability. How proud he was of your cool-headedness under pressure. 

How fortunate and undeserving he’d felt when you’d fallen against his chest to cry about your long lost child, about the violence you suffered under Dalton’s rule. 

He thinks of Annabelle, and Bessie, and Eliza, and how loving anyone in the gang was the equivalent to a death sentence.

In a perfect world, he’d sweep you off your feet and take you away to someplace safe so you could live out the rest of your days in peace.

But the world is far from perfect, and you’ve suffered enough.

Across the bottom of the left page, underneath your gun, he writes a phrase: _little but fierce._

* * *

You trudge back into camp, leading Erebus by his reins, and humming softly to yourself as you watch the foliage above you. The setting sun has cast its peachy glow across the land, and the trees are shifting in the wind. Having just cried yourself into feeling calm, you feel at peace, breathing in the early spring aroma and thinking back to the very first summer you spent with the gang; the very first summer in a long time that you’d been truly free. It seems so long ago now, and yet 

“Good to see you back.”

You smile instinctively as your gaze drifts down from the trees to find a familiar face.

“Hi, Mr. Smith,” you say warmly as you approach him.

He’s standing guard, leaning back against a tree as he watches you. “Was wonderin’ when you’d show up.”

“Worried you were gonna have to track me down, pull me out from underneath some wild animal’s corpse again?” You give him a crooked grin, your brows slanting unevenly.

“Somethin’ like that,” he replies, a brief chuckle emanating from deep in his chest.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you shrug, patting Erebus’ side when he impatiently nuzzles your arm.

Charles watches you for a beat, his patient gaze taking you in before he speaks. “You and Arthur must’ve made up,” he says casually, and color floods your cheeks.

“What?” You ask, hiding a shy little laugh behind your hand. “Why…? What makes you…” You trail off, your voice becoming hoarse. You clear your throat as you squirm internally under Charles’ kind brand of scrutiny.

“The two of you have seemed a little… out of sync, these last few weeks. That’s all.” He smiles easily. Innocently. “Good to see you smiling again.”

You blush again, trying to disappear under the brim of your hat as you practically melt from his comment. Finally, you manage to croak out a response as you chance a look back up at him: “I suppose we have… But you know what they say. Nothin’ brings people together like near-death experiences.” 

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Sure. Well, I’m glad to hear you’ve reconciled with him.”

“Thanks,” you say, unable to think of anything smart to say. _What is wrong with me?_ “And… thank you, for keeping me company, in the meantime.”

“Of course,” he nods. “But I hope that’s not the only time you want me around.”

“Oh,” you blurt out, embarrassed. “No! I - no. I’m sorry,” you bluster, wringing your hands together. “You’re great company! Anytime! I just meant -”

“Relax,” Charles says easily, calming you with one of his honey-sweet grins and a simple hand gesture, and you purse your lips. “I was only teasing.”

“Oh,” you blurt out, feeling silly. “Sorry,” you breathe, tucking a hair behind your ear. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he answers patiently.

You breathe in and out, a huge sigh of exasperation and relief, like when a dog shakes off his stress.

“Heard the train job didn’t go according to plan,” he says, and you snort.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“O’Driscolls, huh?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you nod. “They have a knack for screwin’ up Dutch’s plans. That’s what I’ve heard anyway. Didn’t experience it for myself until today.”

Charles scratches his chin with the back of his thumb as he thinks. “What’s his history with them, anyway?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” you admit. “Something about an old rivalry. Dutch killed Colm O’Driscoll’s brother. Colm killed some girl Dutch used to carry on with. Maybe not in that order. I don’t know the whole story.”

Charles just nods. “I’m sure I’ll hear about it around the campfire at some point.”

“Of course,” you laugh. 

“Well, I won’t keep you, Miss Hawkins,” he says then, pressing against the tree to step away from it. “I’m sure you’re tired.”

“Yes,” you confess. “See you around, Mr. Smith.”

“See you around."

* * *

Over the next few weeks, you are all but confined to camp so as to keep the O’Driscolls off your trail. Orders from Dutch, and Hosea, specifically, which means they are of utmost importance. You can’t escape the knowing looks Hosea keeps giving you anytime he sees you with Arthur, but at this point, they’re harmless. You knew he meant well, and you’re glad to finally be friends with your favorite gruff cowboy again.

To your dismay, however, being stuck at camp means you get to see more of Micah Bell’s emerging personality. Now that he’s been with the gang for some months, you figure he’s started to get comfortable enough to let his authentic self show, comfortable enough to test the waters of what the gang will and won’t tolerate. But something about him still rubs you the wrong way, and the initial feelings of unease you have about him start to make more and more sense. 

The first thing that clues you into understanding that Micah Bell is a wanton creep is the way he watches each of the girls around camp when he thinks no one is looking.

The second clue is a conversation you’re not meant to hear, and it makes you realize that he’s a tried and true degenerate.

It happens on a day when Hosea and Grimshaw take most of the girls into town for errands and groceries, among other things. You stay at camp because there are O’Driscolls afoot and neither Dutch nor Hosea want to risk any of them being able to recognize you or Arthur. You volunteer to keep Jack for Abigail, and in exchange, she promises to post the letter you’ve written to your brother about your winter in the mountains. After you take the young boy for a quick ride around the outer edge of camp, you carry him back to his and Abigail’s tent. 

Their little living space is flush against the side of one of the wagons, and in the late afternoon sun, it is cast in a safe shadow by the large wooden structure. You plant yourself on the plaid quilt beside the tent, resting your back against one of the wagon’s wheels, and Jack falls asleep with his head in your lap after only a few minutes of you reading quietly aloud to him from one of your books. When you notice he’s asleep, you fold the book closed and lay it down beside your leg. You smile wistfully at the small boy; he is growing bigger every day. You gently smooth your fingertips across his temple to brush his hair out of his eyes. 

On the other side of the wagon, at the main campfire, you hear John, Lenny, and Sean talking, but you don’t really pay them any mind until you hear Micah chime in. Try as you might, you haven’t yet figured out how to block out the sound of his voice, and he has an unfortunate habit of talking too much. You roll your eyes as you hear him barge in and take over the conversation, like he does, and find yourself only mildly annoyed. That is, until he starts being vulgar about the women around camp.

“Y’all know if any of these girls ‘round here is good for a roll in the hay?” He asks, and you can hear the slimy smile in his voice.

“Sure ‘dey is,” Sean replies. “Just not wit’ you, ya grimy old bastard.”

“You watch who you’re talkin’ to like that, boy,” Micah warns lazily, his voice monotone.

“I’m just sayin’, it ain’t _my_ fault none o’ the girls won’t touch ya with a 30-foot pole.”

“Maybe I’ll borrow Karen, then, take her for a ride,” Micah threatens, and you can just imagine the ugly sneer on his face, the upward curl of his top lip. 

“Please,” Sean chortles. “She’s too wild for your tastes an’ you know it.”

Micah hums a sleazy laugh, then draws in a sharp, predatory breath. “What about Abigail?”

“I don’t think so,” John interjects.

“Yeah, Marston’s right,” Sean says. “Abigail’s hung up on him.”

“I can fix that,” Micah offers crudely.

“Like Hell you will,” John argues. 

Micah gives a raucous laugh at John’s expense. “I hate rugrats anyway. Next.”

“I have an idea,” Lenny says. “Why don’t you go into town and find a girl you can pay to spend the night with you.”

“Why would I pay for it when I could get it for free?” Micah ponders, making your stomach churn.

“Micah, I doubt you’ve ever touched a woman you ain’t paid for,” Lenny retorts.

“Have some respect, boy,” Micah snarls. “That Jenny of yours has had her eye on me for a while, maybe I’ll snatch her up.”

“That’s real funny, considerin’ I saw her turn you down just yesterday,” John argues flatly.

You hear them laugh at Micah for a moment, and you stifle your own laughter by covering your mouth and smiling to yourself. Jack stirs slightly in your lap, and you stroke his head softly until he settles fully back into sleep. 

“Fine then,” Micah says, sounding fed up with the other men. “How ‘bout, uh…” He trails off as if lost in thought, snapping his fingers a couple of times until the answer comes to him. “What’s her name? Ice Princess.”

You hear Charles speak up then, his husky, authoritative voice sending a shiver through you: “You know her name.” 

You hadn’t even realized he’d joined the conversation. 

“Who?” John asks in confusion.

“‘Ice Princess’ is his nickname for Miss Hawkins,” Charles answers, sounding disgusted on your behalf, and you can just imagine the look of dissatisfaction on his face. “Which is funny, because she warmed up to me just fine.”

Your own disgust manifests in your expression as you consider what he’s just said.

_Ice Princess?_ You feel positively broiling with fury at the moment.

Some of the men guffaw at Micah’s expense, but Micah takes Charles’ defense of your person into the territory of innuendo.

“Miss Hawkins,” Micah laughs, and you imagine him licking his chops. “Maybe that’s it then. She has a _preference,”_ Micah says suggestively. “Seems like a bit of a feral cat if you ask me. Wonder if she _takes it_ like one -”

“You shut your goddamn mouth, will ya?” John shouts, cutting Micah off. 

Micah just laughs. “Aw, did I hit a nerve? You fellers are awful sensitive. Bunch of _upstanding gentlemen,”_ Micah says mockingly.

“Even I agree wit’ Marston,” Sean says. “Ya nasty fucker. And anyway, everybody knows she’s only got eyes for Morgan,” Sean says before raising his voice to call somewhere off to his right. “Ain’t that right, Arthur?”

Your face flushes, and you hear Arthur ask _what_ in an annoyed tone of voice before you hear him trudge toward the campfire.

“What’s right?” He asks. “What’re you degenerates talkin’ about now?”

“‘Dat you n’ Miss Hawkins is _involved.”_

You hold your breath, wishing that Sean had kept his mouth shut and kept from involving Arthur in this conversation. 

But there’s something else there, too. Some part of you deep inside wants to know his answer.

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” Arthur laughs. “Much as it would pride me to agree witcha, I’m afraid I cannot.”

“I don’t believe ‘dat for a second,” Sean argues. “I seen da way d’two o’ you look at each other. Way she looks at you, Morgan.”

“Well, you need to have your eyes checked, then, ‘cause she ain’t never looked at me no kinda way.”

But hadn’t you? Had he really never noticed it?

“Besides,” Arthur continues. “I’m fairly certain Miss Hawkins has had enough of foolish men for the rest of her life.”

“Well, if you ain’t gonna go after her, maybe I will,” Micah suggests, his tone oozing with indecency, and you can hear the disconcerting smile in his voice. You’d stick your head into an alligator’s mouth before you’d go anywhere near Micah Bell.

“She’s so far outta your league you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if it got to that point,” Lenny chimes in. “Which it won’t.”

You hear the other men laugh.

It’s surprising to hear what they think of you when they think you’re not listening; even John seems to want to at least defend you from Micah’s onslaught, which is comforting in its own regard. 

You’ve half a mind to walk out from behind the wagon right this moment and chastise him yourself, but something tells you it would only exacerbate things. You’d learned that trying to defuse Micah seldomly worked; anything you tried was closer to throwing water onto a grease fire than it was to actually extinguishing his flames. It was better to just not give him the time of day, letting him consume all the oxygen in the room so that he suffocated himself.

“C’mon,” he continues. “I can’t be the only one wonderin’ what she looks like under all those clothes. She don’t never put anything on display. Always wearin' that creepy little bandana 'round her neck. I wish she'd borrow somethin' from one of the other girls just for a day, I could get an idea of what she's got hidin' under -"

"That's enough," Charles says, his tone low and so stern it makes you stiffen up.

"Do us all a favor and shut the Hell up," John snarls. "Salivatin' over her like she's a piece of meat. The hell is wrong with you?"

Micah laughs cruelly. 

"Get on somewhere," Lenny says dismissively.

"And rinse your damn mouth out, talkin' like that,'' Arthur snarls, and you can see in your mind his sharpened brow, his narrowed eyes, the accusatory point of his finger. “I better not catch you sniffin’ around her,” Arthur warns.

“Or what, cowpoke?” Micah inquires with a raspy half-whisper.

“Don’t much think you’d wanna figure that out, Micah,” John says. “I’d leave her be if I were you.”

You suddenly feel very guilty for still harboring a bit of resentment toward John. 

The men manage to chase Micah off, and you sit there with a hand resting on Jack’s back, your disdain for Micah bristling at the forefront of your mind. 

You hear Arthur’s words again then: _I am fairly certain Miss Hawkins has had enough of foolish men for the rest of her life._

He was right, in a sense: Dalton’s cruelty had made you positively averse to the idea of becoming involved with men, and had also made you innately terrified of their species in general. With time and self-sufficiency, however, came a sense of personal safety, and you’d started to reconsider whether you didn't long for their company entirely. It was just easier not to seek it out, because being with other people meant being _intimate_ with them, and it didn't feel worth the trouble. You'd suffered so much mistreatment from Dalton that you weren't sure you _could_ feel intimate about a man at all anymore. 

In your first few years away from your husband, you’d been so steeped in anger and disdain for the idea of submitting to vulnerability that you thought you’d never love again, but with each year that passed, those feelings seemed farther away, and your thoughts of Arthur in particular had turned toward something else. 

When you think about the day of the train robbery and the way Arthur had enveloped you in his warm embrace as if you were as precious and fragile as glass, you think that maybe someday you could change your mind about settling down. Maybe someday you could face your fears of intimacy. If you were honest with yourself, you _did_ long for Arthur's touch, and in a perfect world, you'd seek it out. But no matter how highly you thought of Arthur, you also thought there wasn't a man alive who wouldn't expect you to lie down for him, who was patient and kind enough to wait for your stunted libido to catch up to theirs. Surely there wasn’t a man alive who wouldn't think you unreasonable for not being willing or able to make yourself truly known, so you just avoided their species altogether so as not to have to find out. 

And besides, you’d only recently mended fences with Arthur. You were friends again, finally - truly and actually _friends_ and you didn’t want to lose that by considering the remote possibility that he could be something more.

The third and final clue that Micah is an unchecked miscreant comes only a week and a half after you overhear him talking about you in a way that makes your stomach churn, and the feeling remains long after the conversation is over.

Still trying to keep you from being recognized in town, Pearson asks John, Charles, Karen, and Mary-Beth to go into town for the day’s errands run. It’s your turn for watch duty, and Charles comes to relieve you after they’ve returned from the Waxwood Haberdashery. 

He moseys up to you at your post, a repeater slung over his shoulder and an easy smile creasing his lips. You sigh inwardly at how handsome he is, how easy his posture becomes once his eyes find you. He greets you with a warm look, his ever-calming presence putting you at ease.

“This came for you,” He says, reaching into his jacket pocket for an envelope.

“Oh, thank you,” you smile, taking the envelope from him and turning it over to read the back.

“Barbarella Blackbird,” he reads aloud with a wry smile. “That you?”

“Yes and no,” you answer, realizing Charles probably hasn’t heard about your alternate identity. “It’s my stage name. Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” Charles says.

“Well,” you breathe. “When I’m not nursing stitches from a cougar attack or waiting out the winter in the mountains, I’m usually performing some kind of song and dance in whatever playhouses are nearby.”

“Really?” He asks. His eyebrows quirk up a bit as he thinks about it. “Makes sense.”

“What does?”

“That you’re a performer. You have the voice for it.”

“Thank you,” you grin, bowing your head slightly. 

“I’m guessing the lack of a theater in town is what’s keeping you at camp.”

“That, and the abundance of O’Driscolls around.” You shake your head. “To be honest with you, I think we should leave soon. They have this place locked down, and we’re fightin’ them for scraps.”

“Think Dutch and Hosea will make that call?”

“Dutch, no,” you answer thoughtfully. “He’s got too much pride. Leaving now would be letting Colm win. Hosea will be the one arguing for the move. But if anyone can make Dutch see reason, it’s him.”

Charles hums a thoughtful sound. “Here’s hoping.”

“Mhm,” you say. “I’ll leave you to it. Thank you, Mr. Smith.” You gesture to the letter in your hand.

“Of course.”

You trudge back up the hill to the main camp and make your way to your tent, pulling your knife from its sheath on your belt and slicing open the envelope. You carefully unfold the cream-colored parchment, holding it steady in the breeze and tucking the envelope inside the right breast-pocket of your coat. 

Your brother’s familiar script covers the page - no, _both_ pages - and you take a seat in the wooden chair outside of your tent to read.

_Dearest sister,_ _  
_ _It is a blessing to hear from you after the long winter months. Your silence had me worried, and I must admit, I nearly choked on my dinner when I read the bit about your cougar attack. You made it sound so insignificant, as if it were nothing but a minor inconvenience. I am glad that your associates took such good care of you, but please, for the sake of my emotional well-being, try to be less reckless. Your world is dangerous enough without the threat of wild animals sneaking up on you in the snow._

You can’t help but hum a laugh.

_Speaking of dangerous animals sneaking up on you, I have some rather… upsetting news. I would wait until you are perhaps sitting down or in a secure location before continuing -_

“Afternoon, Miss Hawkins,” Micah says, startling you so much that you gasp and bring a hand to your chest.

“Jesus,” you breathe, your brows knitting together and down as you glare at him. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m awful sorry ‘bout that,” he laughs insincerely, leaning one palm against the small table beside you and standing far too close for comfort.

“Can I help you with something, Mr. Bell?” You ask, your voice deadpan as you lean back and cross your legs. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

He takes a seat across from you and leans forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop. “Well, now that you mention it… There is somethin’ I’ve been meaning to ask you. But you’re obviously busy,” he says, gesturing to the letter in your hands.

_If I’m obviously busy, then leave me alone,_ you want to say, but you bite your tongue. 

“You see, I’ve been watchin’ you these last few weeks,” he starts, his voice low as he tries and fails to sound seductive. “And if you don’t mind my sayin’, I’ve found you quite allurin’.”

“I’m flattered,” you make yourself say after working your jaw.

“The only thing is,” he says, rising from the table and pacing to the left slowly. “I think more of the fellers would be more attracted to you if you’d dress up, wear a skirt every now and then.”

“I’ll be sure _not_ to take that into consideration the next time I get dressed in the morning,” you reply casually. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Bell."

He laughs raucously and paces back toward you. Once he reaches the table again, he perches his hands across the back of the chair. “Whatcha readin’ there?”

“Letter from my family,” you say, eyeing him cautiously.

He makes a thoughtful sound as he nods at you. “Family’s important.” He leaves the table, pacing off to the right as he continues: “You know, my father and I used to cause all kinds of trouble up and down the coast of California.”

“Is that right?” You ask, sounding disinterested. 

He doesn’t take the hint and begins to elaborate. 

As he talks, your curiosity gets the better of you, and your eyes drift back to the page once Micah is no longer looking at you. You tune him out as you continue reading.

_I would wait until you are perhaps sitting down or in a secure location before continuing._ _  
_ _Dalton came to the ranch, just after the thaw. He is looking for you._

Your heart drops into your stomach, and your whole body goes stiff.

_He is looking for you, and he came to ask us. I was surprised to see him show up, after all these years. I thought he would’ve come much sooner, but he told me some elaborate lie about how you were unwell and had been kidnapped by a group of deviants._  
 _I told him I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in years, but that I would keep an ear out.  
_ _Johanna, he_ _knows_ _about Barbarella Blackbird. He asked me if I had heard of her. If she could be you. I pretended as if I were none the wiser -_

“Don’t you know it’s rude not to listen when a man’s talkin’ to you?”

Micah slams his hand down on the table, down on the letter, scaring you half-to-death and almost forcing you to fall out of your chair.

“What the Hell is the matter with you?!” You shout, rising from your seat so suddenly that it tips over behind you.

He gives you a wicked smile and your blood starts to boil as you come alive with all the rage you’d set aside from the other day when he’d objectified you to the men around the campfire.

“I just wanna talk, that’s all,” he says, towering over you as he steps closer. “Thought maybe we could find someplace quiet, have some fun. What do you say?”

“No,” you spit. If Micah wanted trouble, you had no qualms about giving it to him. He’d provoked you, after all, and how did the old saying go? Mess with the bull and get the horns?

You remember how he’d called you a feral cat, reduced you to a wild animal meant for breeding and nothing else.

Mess with the feral cat, and you get the claws, along with each and every one of her teeth.

You feel a hand on your arm and when you look down, find that it belongs to Tilly. She steps in front of you protectively, staring Micah down with no fear. Seeing her come to your aid seems to only invoke his ire further, as he develops a harsh line between his brows as he sneers at the two of you.

_Well,_ you think. _Fine by me._ It wouldn’t be the first time you’d killed a man in self-defense. It certainly wouldn’t be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, pardners.  
> Apologies for this update being so late. Things were crazy in the States last week.  
> But I appreciate all your love and patience, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!  
> Unfortunately, I'm going to have to reduce my update speed from once a week to once every other week. But just for a little while! I hope you'll understand <3  
> Thank you so much to all my regular readers and commenters, and to those who checked this story out on a whim! It means the world to me.  
> Much love to everyone, and I hope February has been kind to you.  
> See you in two weeks <3


	14. Silence, A Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Stillness is a woman I’m too cowardly to kiss  
>  A hallowed thing too holy for my unclean lips  
> She told me she loved me, but I ran away and hid  
> [I’m convinced she’d do the same if she saw beneath my skin](https://youtu.be/xdsESY2IjQQ)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for brief mentions of violence and domestic abuse throughout.

“Leave her alone, Micah!” Tilly’s angry voice rings out through camp, causing the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck to stand up.

He snaps his vision in the direction of her voice to find her standing between you and Micah as if to protect you. Arthur’s blood begins to boil at the sight of Micah’s wolfish grin aimed directly at you, and he automatically rises from his seat by the scout fire. Tilly seems to say something private to you, perhaps pleading with you to walk away, and you barely respond as she starts to escort you away from Micah, all the while giving him a cruel look over her shoulder. 

“Prudes, the both of ya! Don’t you wanna have a little fun?” Micah calls as he starts to give chase, hot on your and Tilly’s heels. “Don’t walk away from me!”

Arthur’s stomach tightens up when he watches Micah reach for you. In one swift motion, the second Micah’s fingers close around your arm, you twist out of his grip, pull your pistol from your hip, and press the barrel to his cheekbone, stopping him in his tracks. You pull the hammer back with your thumb and push the tip of the barrel against his face, _hard,_ causing him to wince as he takes a couple of steps back.

Camp all but comes to a standstill as everyone turns to observe the tense confrontation, and Arthur exchanges a look with Hosea, who then starts to hastily make his way toward you.

“Touch me again, Mr. Bell,” you snarl, your nostrils flared as you give him a deathly stare. “And it’ll be the last time you have hands.”

Arthur gets a chill from the venom seething in your voice, from your sharply narrowed brow, from your lip curled up in a hateful sneer. He has half a mind to let you shoot Micah, but then his eyes flick to Dutch, who is watching intently and would be utterly displeased if you did, and he has to stop you. Though it would make you – and, admittedly, him – feel better now, he knows you would come to regret it later. 

Hosea beats him to the punch, coming to your side to try and talk you down.

“That’s enough now, Micah,” he says sternly, laying a hand down on your arm as he scowls determinedly at the man.

“Ohhh,” Micah laughs cruelly. “I like ‘em feisty.” He narrows his eyes further at you, licking his chops as he stares you down, even with the barrel pressing so hard against his cheek that it will probably bruise.

Arthur finally reaches you, coming to your right side and standing opposite of Hosea, and he carefully steps close enough to you to rest his hands on top of the gun in your own. He tries gingerly to move it away from Micah’s face but you don’t budge.

“Johanna,” he says calmly. “He ain’t worth it. You just go find somewhere to cool down, I’ll sort him out.” 

You blink, letting your eyes flit to Arthur’s for the briefest of moments before returning to Micah. 

"I want my letter back," is all you say, one enunciated syllable at a time, quiet and full of fury.

Arthur glances at the crumpled paper in Micah's balled fist and sets his jaw. "Alright. I’ll get your letter back,” he promises. “Just leave him to me."

You swallow and blink your eyes closed a few times, and he knows you’re letting your mask slip off. You let him push your gun away and guide it back to your holster. He raises his eyebrows to ask if you've understood him and your shoulders rise and fall with a quick huff. Arthur then turns to face Micah, planting himself in between the two of you with his back to you in a defensive stance. 

“Leave the ladies be,” he warns sternly.

“Hahaww, ain’t that sweet,” Micah jokes insincerely. “Mister Morgan, comin’ to the rescue.”

“Ain’t savin’ them from you. I’m afraid it’s the other way around.” He waits for Micah to understand the reality of the situation. “I oughta let her shoot’cha.”

Micah’s cocky smile turns into a satisfying scowl. “Somebody oughta loosen up that stuck up broad. Maybe she’ll let you, Morgan.” He sneers at you, and Arthur crosses his arms, his patience starting to run _very_ thin.

“Tch,” Tilly chimes in. “Anybody but you, ya pig.” 

Micah’s scowl deepens and he tries to take a threatening step forward before Arthur shoves him backward.

“Enough,” Dutch calls from his tent.

“You heard ‘im. Get on,” Arthur commands, raising a finger to point Micah away from camp.

“As you wish, cowpoke,” Micah concedes, begrudgingly handing over your mail and turning on his heel to go after giving an insincere bow.

Arthur unfolds the papers carefully, pressing them to his thigh to smooth them out. He looks up to find you and you don’t say anything when he presses the letter into your fingers. You just nod without meeting his eyeline and begin trudging steadily away from camp, and Tilly sighs. 

"Thank you, Arthur," she says, pressing a hand to her chest as if to calm herself. 

"O'course," he says. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Miss Jackson. I'll go see about Miss Hawkins."

She nods and Arthur turns to follow after you, his blood still running hot with all his rage at Micah’s vulgar words, perverse attitude, and predatory behavior. 

He follows your trail down the main path that leads in and out of camp, and passes Charles who is still stationed on watch-duty.

“What’s going on?” Charles asks, looking ready to spring into action.

“Mr. Bell has made a terrible fool of himself,” Arthur answers as he continues after you.

“That’s not surprising,” Charles responds dryly. “What happened?”

“Never you mind, Mr. Smith,” Arthur waves him off. “Tell you later. Did you see which way Miss Hawkins went?”

Charles just points, and Arthur follows his direction. “She gonna be alright? She came by lookin’ like a storm just a minute ago.”

“She’ll be fine,” Arthur answers. “Thank you, Charles.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He breaks through the trees and into a small clearing by the river to find you sitting on a fallen log with your back to him. He assumes you’re daydreaming, just staring ahead at the water in front of you, until he steps forward and a branch snaps beneath his boot. 

You turn with a start, aiming your pistol at him, and he puts his hands up.

“Whoa,” he breathes gently, meeting your eyes. “S’just me.”

You lower your weapon and he lowers his arms, glancing at the letter in your other hand, and noticing that your eyes are red and watery. You turn away from him then, letting out a shuddering sigh as you do, and he starts toward you cautiously. He perches one foot beside you on the log, and leans on his thigh.

“You oughta let me shoot him,” you say curtly, immediately followed by a sniffle.

Arthur snorts at that. “Don’t I know it.”

“Probably better you didn’t, I guess,” you admit quietly. “Thank you for stepping in like you did.”

“‘Course,” he replies, nodding at you. For you to have such a volatile reaction to Micah’s vulgarity… Surely something else was also bothering you. “Everything okay?”

“Not really, no,” you answer, shrugging and looking away from him.

He watches you for a beat, then breathes out a patient sigh and steps over the log to join you. He’s glad that the two of you seem to be past that stage of talking where you pretend nothing’s wrong when he knows otherwise.

You scoot over automatically to make room for him, answering his unasked question of whether you feel like having company, and he takes a seat beside you. He removes his hat and plants it on his kneecap before carding a hand through his hair. 

You’re still scanning the surface of the water, as if the words you’re looking for will just leap out of the river and land in your hands. He marvels at the green jewels in your eyes, brilliantly reflecting the light of the midday sun, and waits patiently for you to elaborate. It was a step forward from your usual resistance to people checking on you; normally, trying to get you to admit you were hurting or needed help was like pulling teeth. He retrieves a cigarette from his satchel and props it between his lips while he lights a match on his boot. He takes a drag, watching your hand extend towards him automatically, and then hands it over to you on his exhale. You take a quick pull on it and return it to him, blowing the smoke out of your nostrils and watching it drift away in the cool breeze.

“I heard him, the other day,” you say finally. “Talkin’ about me like I was a piece of meat.”

Arthur looks over at you, his gaze snapping to your own perhaps a little too quickly as he gulps down his fear. If you’d heard Micah, then you’d also heard Arthur’s defense of you. His palms start to get a little clammy.

“Heard the other men defending me. Yourself included.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Ah.” That answers that.

“Thank you,” is all you say then, giving him an appreciative glance. 

He nods, the nervous tide in his belly churning up and down. 

“It’s strange,” you add. “Hearing what everyone has to say about me when they think I’m not around. Didn’t know y’all thought about me like that.” You pause as you wring your hands together. “The girls tease me from time to time, but… I didn’t think people seriously thought you and I were… well…” You trail off and start fidgeting with the tail of your braid.

He looks at his boots as he takes another pull on the cigarette. “Well, you know how they are. People like to talk. ‘Specially if it ain’t their business.”

You nod, but your crooked frown says that you’ve got more to say. “It’s just that I —” you start, your mouth hanging agape as you seem to fumble the words. “I guess I don’t mind the implication… as long as you don’t,” you continue, laughing self-consciously and looking at him then. When he meets your gaze and realizes what you mean, all of his organs somersault. 

_Miss Hawkins ain’t never looked at me no kinda way._ But was that true? Did he even believe it himself when he’d said it? The way you were looking at him now… he couldn’t be imagining it, could he? It was just like the way you’d looked at him that day on the beach in California. The way you’d looked at him when you’d fixed his tie on the train platform. The way you look at him when it’s just the two of you left by the fire and he gets the courage to share his drawings with you. The look that, each and every time, gives him the urge to cradle your cheek in his hand and kiss you. _I don’t mind the implication as long as you don’t._

He clears his throat much too audibly before he answers: “Naw. ‘Course not.”

Then he turns away, because he always turns away; he doesn’t want to mistake your kindness for love, doesn’t want to take advantage of your vulnerability and ruin the bond you share. He tries to hide it by pretending to brush something off of his boot.

“What else is wrong?” He asks, trying to avoid having to confront this moment. This feeling. “Usually don’t get that bent outta shape over somethin’ like that.”

You look at the river again, visibly uncomfortable, presumably from the way he just fumbled that last bit of conversation. Another moment passes before you speak up, your voice morose, and a sullen acceptance in your expression: “Dalton is looking for me.”

His gaze snaps to you suddenly, a long-passed fury creeping its way to the forefront of his mind. There are many things he wants to say; namely, _I’ll kill that son of a bitch if I ever see him again,_ but he grinds his teeth to hold his jaw shut, holding back the firestorm inside him, reserved only for a man as despicable as Dalton Dulvey.

“He went to my brother for help,” you continue, handing over the letter.

He hesitates carefully before taking it from you and skimming over the page. In his peripheral vision, he sees you get up and start to pace, but he focuses instead on the words in front of him.

_Dalton came to the ranch, just after the thaw. He is looking for you._ _  
_ _Johanna, he knows about Barbarella Blackbird. He asked me if I had heard of her. If she could be you. I pretended as if I were none the wiser, but I think he called my bluff. He didn’t say he knew I was lying, but he didn’t have to. I could tell that he knew._ _  
_ _I don’t think he knows where you are now, but he knows where your alter ego was last seen performing in San Francisco, and it seemed like he intended to start there._ _  
_ _Johanna, I love you, and I do not want to see you harmed or forcibly taken back to that life, so I am begging you: please be careful. I know you will be too stubborn to agree to stop performing entirely, so I will ask instead that you just try to keep it to a minimum, and to keep your head on a swivel. Perhaps that Mr. Morgan of yours can encourage you to take caution. I know he would protect you if it came down to it. Just try to prevent it from getting to that point._

Arthur’s eyes glaze over as he stares at an imperfection in the paper just after that last line, and he allows himself the small comfort of being referred to as _yours._

“It’s not fair,” you say bitterly, and his attention returns to you as he passes the letter back. “I don’t want to have to hang up my hat because of him.”

“I know,” Arthur says sympathetically.

“I love my work,” you continue, your voice getting softer. “I don’t want him to take anything else from me.”

Worry bristles at the back of his mind, because your brother was right: you _are_ too stubborn to let the threat of Dalton finding you keep you from living your life. Arthur also knows that trying to tell you _not_ to do something was an efficient way to push you away. It was also an efficient way to make sure you went and did the damn thing anyway, out of spite.

_“Stubborn ol’ thing, ain’t’cha,”_ he’d said to you, many years ago.

_“As a mule, I’m afraid,”_ you’d replied, a sheepish half-grin creasing your lips.

“Listen,” he says then, firmly but gently as he stands and approaches you. “If he’s lookin’ for you in San Francisco, that’s a cross-country trip. That’ll take him months. By the time he gets all the way out there, the trail’ll have gone cold, and we’ll be long gone from Montana. He don’t know where we are or where we’ll show up next. He’ll never catch up to us. And even if he does, he’ll have to get through me to get to you.” 

The words are more intense than he intends, and you avert your eyes as you twirl a finger in the end of your braid. He swears he sees more color in your cheeks after that last part.

“He’ll have to get through all of us,” he continues, gesturing vaguely in the direction of camp. Then, a joke to lighten your spirit: “He’ll have to get through you.” He gives you a wry grin as he looks down at you, down through your dark lashes and into your perfect green eyes, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds of a storm when you smile up at him. 

_She ain’t never looked at me no kinda way._ But here you were, once again looking at him in that way that spelled trouble for his weak heart. He’s grateful when you go to him, when you wrap your arms around his middle to hug him, because it saves him from himself; saves him from his urge to kiss you. From wanting to tell you how he really feels about you. He isn’t sure he’d be able to articulate it even if he tried.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you say, the words humming quietly against his chest as you press your cheek to his shirt.

“Of course,” he replies, resting his chin atop your head and breathing you in: lavender with a delicate touch of mint. He hates to let you go, but when your arms loosen around his waist, he lets his own disconnect from around your shoulders. 

“You gonna stay out here a little while?” He asks. “Could walk you back to camp, if you want.”

“Oh, I dread to hear what they’re saying about me now,” you sigh, obviously flustered but trying to hide it.

“Who cares?” Arthur says with a shrug. “And since when do you care about what the others think of you?”

“Since never,” you snort. “‘Specially not that mangey bastard, Micah.”

“Then what is it?” Arthur inquires. “What’s got you all…” He gestures vaguely in the air between the two of you.

“Perhaps I’m overthinking it, but,” you pause to turn away from him just slightly. “It’s strange to realize that I exist outside of my interactions with other people. That I’m not just a figment of everyone’s imagination.”

Arthur can’t help but let out a small laugh.

You turn to him suddenly with a betrayed look on your face and he flinches when you give him a light smack to his abdomen. “Don’t laugh at me,” you demand politely, but you look as though you’re trying not to laugh at yourself.

“I’m sorry,” he says after his laughter peters out. “I think you may be overthinkin’ it.”

You give him a reluctant grin. “Well, I appreciate your candor.”

“Anytime,” he nods. “C’mon. Lemme walk you back to camp. Don’t wanna make Micah think he can just run people off whenever he pleases.”

You snort. “Sure.”

“After you,” Arthur says, waving you along by extending his arm past himself.

* * *

That night, you dream you’re standing in the doorway of the Dulvey Estate kitchen. The staff moves through you as if you’re immaterial, not seeming to pay you any mind as they filter in and out of the dining room with extravagant plates of expensive meals.

You look to your left and find Miss Collins standing at the stove, rhythmically stirring a large pot of something dark and viscous. As you meander towards her, she turns to look at you, but something is wrong with her face. You don’t figure out what until she smiles; her mouth is too wide, her jaw filled with too many teeth. 

You avert your gaze with a start, focusing instead on the contents of the cauldron on the burner. The scent of whatever is currently bubbling within wafts up to meet you, filling your nose and overwhelming your senses. You gag when you realize the smell is that of iron. Of blood and sinew. 

You back away from the stove, not daring to look inside the pot, stepping backward until your hip makes contact with the counter behind you and you place your palms against it to keep yourself from falling down. 

That’s when you hear the footsteps. Slow but growing both in volume and in proximity, the sound of well-manicured leather dress shoes clacking against the marble floor in the dining hall. They come to a stop and you hold your breath as you wait for the voice of the person the footsteps belong to.

You see the silhouette of a tall, two-legged figure and think at first that it’s your husband, but the longer you stare, the more you come to realize that it is only humanlike in shape. You try to look away when you understand the whole of what you’re seeing: a misshapen man in one of your husband’s signature tailored suits, with elongated limbs and the rotting face of a mongrel dog.

_“Johanna,”_ the creature beckons, speaking with Dalton’s voice, and your head turns toward the door of its own volition. You can’t not look at the thing that isn’t Dalton, now standing at the threshold. It’s got one mangled, too-large hand bracing the door frame with claws the length of rail spikes digging into the wood so harshly that it is starting to splinter.

It steps into the room proper, ducking to keep the top of its head from hitting the ceiling, and approaches you, one heavy footfall at a time. When it reaches you, it exhales a long, ragged breath down into your face, and you’re overcome with the heat and stench of brimstone as you gaze involuntarily into its jagged maw. Deep within its throat is the warm glow of a burning fire, shining bright orange through the torn patches of skin in its neck.

It slams a monstrous paw down on the counter beside you and you flinch, shutting your eyes to avoid having to look at the imposter in front of you any longer. When you open them again, you see its countenance morph into that of your husband, but the right half of his face is scarred over with black scorch marks and reeks of burnt flesh. Your stomach churns and you blink again, finding the kitchen changed once more into a horrifying sight: hundreds of thousands of perfect white dinner plates, stained with blood and floating up to the ceiling all around you. Dalton smiles wickedly, his arm extended up in front of him like the conductor of an orchestra. He holds his palm upward, and a lifetime passes before he drops his hand straight down, and the plates begin to fall. You watch helplessly as they descend around you, and the sound of their impact threatens to shatter your eardrums. 

The final piece of Dalton’s grand cacophony is the cauldron in his hands. He heaves it forward, and the dark substance inside sloshes away from and then toward you. You throw your hands up but the liquid splashes loudly when it is thrown fully upon you, making contact with every inch of your skin as you’re drenched in a boiling vat’s worth of blood.

You wake with a start, shooting up out of your bedroll with a hand clutching your chest while the other tries to wipe your hair from your eyes. It’s matted to your forehead with blood – _no, not blood, just sweat,_ you correct yourself. Your chest is heaving with your short, stuttering breaths, and you can’t stop your hands from shaking as the bloody, horrendous visage of your nightmare lingers heavily in your mind.

_Dalton is looking for me. Dalton will kill me if he finds me._

You stop short. Dalton wouldn’t kill you. That would be too merciful.

Yours would be a fate worse than death. He would flay you alive. He would break you down piece by piece until you were no longer recognizable, until there was nothing left to bury, and he would enjoy it the whole time. He’d see it as some sort of sick vengeance, his wrong to right since you were his greatest villain and you needed to be punished.

You feel vomit threatening to climb its way up the back of your throat and realize that the sensation of being damp with blood is, in reality, the discomfort of your nightclothes clinging to your sweat-covered body. You try to separate the fabric of your nightgown from your sodden skin by pinching at the surface and pulling away, but it just falls back down against your flesh. 

You resolve to disrobe and, despite your trembling hands and nervous, thrumming heartbeat, change into a pair of pants and a plaid button-up shirt. You don’t bother tucking it in, rolling the sleeves up with jerky hand movements in the hope that the night air will provide some relief and sober you up a bit. 

You climb out of your tent as you try to push away the terrifyingly real memory of the creature you saw in your frantic sleep, but it is burned into your brain in all of its flesh-rending repugnance. You stumble through camp on your way to the river, wrapping your arms around yourself as the chill of the night air makes its home in your bones. When you reach the bank, you kneel in the grass and the mud and scoop a hand into the slow-moving surface to splash cold water onto your face.

You do this twice more, and on the third time, swab a hand across the back of your neck to clear away the sticky feeling of perspiration. You sit back on your heels, your legs gathered beneath you, and rest your palms on your thighs. It would be pointless to try to go back to sleep now unless you wanted to try to retreat back into your deeply unsettling nightmares. You shiver again, unrolling your sleeves, and make yourself stand so you can move to the log you’d been sitting on with Arthur earlier.

Arthur. 

You recall the events from earlier in the day, when he’d followed you out here to check on you after your confrontation with Micah, and had been a great comfort. But he’d also been uncomfortable when you’d tried to hint at your feelings about him. 

You sigh, reaching up to free your hair from its tie. You’d hastily wrapped it up in a bun just before bed, but in your sleep, it’s come undone and gotten tangled up. You brush your fingertips through the ends, but they get hung up in the knots, and you exhale in frustration as you try to work them loose.

“Johanna?”

You turn, finding Charles standing about ten feet behind you and boasting an extra coat over his arm.

“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

“I could ask you the same,” you tell him, and he comes closer. “How’d you find me, anyway? It’s the middle of the night. Thought everyone would be asleep.”

“Did you forget I’m your neighbor?” He asks, humorously but kindly. 

You remember the tent that is stationed beside your own, realizing consciously that it belonged to Charles. 

“Sounded like you were having a pretty bad dream.”

You purse your lips, feeling a little self-conscious. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

He gets close enough to drape the coat around you, but before he does, he asks permission with his eyes. You just nod, and he carefully opens the garment and pulls it closed around you. It nearly dwarfs you, and you pull it even closer around yourself, snuggling into the thick fabric and breathing in Charles’ scent. It overwhelms you in the best possible way, pushing away the taste and smell of iron and fear that your bad dream had left behind.

“You didn’t,” he says, sitting down beside you after you scoot over. “I have trouble sleeping pretty often.” 

You glance at the scar on his cheek, briefly wondering how it got there in the first place. “I’m sorry,” you say sympathetically.

He notices you looking and breathes out a half-hearted laugh. “Was a bar fight.” He runs his fingers across the mark before letting his hand drop into his lap. “I spent some time in Oklahoma when I was about seventeen. Was just mindin’ my business in some busy saloon. But there was this drunken fool, ranting and raving about my people.” A tic starts in his jaw. “But he insisted on using every impolite word in the book. So I got up to leave. But he started taunting me, laughing at me for being offended. So I just hauled off and hit him. He hits the floor, down in one punch, but then his friends come after me. One of them breaks a bottle on my face. I barely got out of there with my life. The only reason I did was because the bartender intervened. I thought maybe he was concerned about me. But he was only concerned about the mess we were making of his bar.”

“Charles, I’m so sorry,” you say earnestly, laying a hand down on his bicep. 

He eyes your hand before meeting your gaze. “It is what it is.”

You understand now what he meant when he said he stuck with the gang because everyone treats him fair. “You said you were alone for a long time before you joined us. Were you always on your own?”

“No,” he shakes his head and a melancholy smile creases his lips. “I was born on a reservation. My mother was a Native. My father was a colored man.”

“Was?” You inquire.

His smile fades. “My mother was taken away when I was very young, by some soldiers. We never saw her again. Our tribe was pushed out of their land. My father did his best with what was left, but he lost himself at the bottom of a bottle. Took off on my own when I was around thirteen.”

“I’m sorry all of that happened to you. You’ve had a hard life.”

He makes a thoughtful sound, quirking a brow up at you. 

“What?” You ask.

“Usually people just tell me it made me stronger.”

“Maybe it did, but that doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t mean you deserved it.”

He’s quiet for a long time after that. “Thank you, Johanna.”

“Of course,” you say, but you aren’t quite sure what you did that would warrant his gratitude. 

You try to resume combing your fingers through your hair, but they become stuck again and you sigh. Charles turns to you and his eyes travel up the length of your brown locks.

“May I?” He asks, holding out a hand toward your hair.

“Oh,” you breathe, blinking in surprise. “Sure.”

You shift in your seat so you can turn your back to him, and he gingerly gathers all of your hair so he can pull it back over your shoulders and lay it across your back. You feel the gentlest of tugs in your scalp when he starts to work his fingers through the tangles, and you shiver involuntarily when you feel a relaxing tingle shoot up your spine.

“Sorry,” you chuckle. 

He gives you a reassuring look when you glance at him over your shoulder.

“Anyway, I came out here to check on you. Didn’t mean to take over talking about myself.”

“That’s okay,” you assure him. “I don’t know if I should tell you. It seems so trivial now.”

“Just because your struggles look different from mine doesn’t make them any less real.”

You’re thankful you’re not facing him anymore, because your eyes have started to fill with tears. You bite down on the inside of your bottom lip to dam them up. Charles was so kind, so easy to talk to. And especially with his fingers running through your hair, he was calming to be around. He was strong and unafraid to be vulnerable with you. He’d shared a part of himself with you, a piece of his apparently traumatic past. It was only fair that you did the same. _My turn,_ you think. 

“I used to be married,” you begin. “Before I joined the gang. I guess technically I still am, but… he’s very rich, and charming, and handsome. But he is also very cruel. The gang –” You pause. “Hosea saved me. Made Arthur save me.”

“Made?”

“Arthur and I used to really dislike one another,” you admit, breathing a wistful chuckle. 

“I never would’ve guessed,” Charles says. 

You give him the short version of how Hosea and Arthur saved you, how they whisked you away into a life of crime and freedom. How you and Arthur eventually mended fences and became uncertain friends. How uncertain friends turned into close friends and then into what you are now. _But what are you now?_ You can’t quite figure that out. 

You talk around Eliza and Isaac, giving Charles just as much as he needs to know without ousting Arthur’s personal skeletons and without skipping such an important detail.

“So what went wrong today? What set you off?” He asks, carding his fingers through the full length of your hair.

"I found out that Dalton is looking for me because he caught wind of my stage persona and he thinks it could be me. I was trying to read that letter from my brother when Micah interrupted me and snatched it out of my hands.”

“He's a pig," Charles says, and you can imagine the look of disgust on his face.

"Who, Dalton or Micah?” You ask.

“Both,” Charles answers firmly.

“Good answer,” you say, throwing him a grin over your shoulder and feeling him start to weave your hair into a french braid. 

He hums a laugh, his deft fingers making quick work of your hair as he braids it down your back. He reaches for the hair tie in your hand and you fork it over. Once he’s finished fastening the end of the braid, he slips it over your shoulder so that it hangs down one side of your neck.

You turn back to him and shrink under his attention as he beholds you with soft admiration. 

“So, can I assume Dalton is the reason you wear that red bandana all the time?” Charles inquires gently.

You swallow your tears and nod reluctantly. You clench one of your fists several times before you work up the courage to raise it to your neck.

“It’s probably hard to see in the dark, but…” You tell him, tilting your head up and to the left so you can bare your neck to him. You run your pointer finger and middle finger across the mark, feel the line of scar tissue that interrupts your complexion. 

Charles’ eyes follow the trail of your fingers, starting at the middle of your throat and ending just under your right earlobe. “He did that to you?” He asks, his voice low.

You lower your chin. “That’s why I’m so scared of him. Of what he’ll do to me if he finds me.”

“We’ll protect you,” Charles reminds you. “He won’t lay a hand on you again.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He nods.

“Anyway, I was already on edge today from Micah acting… well, the way that he acts. Didn’t help that I heard him talking about me to some of the other men the other day. Pretended he didn't know my name and called me a feral cat."

"You heard that, huh?" Charles asks. "So you also heard him call you Ice Princess."

"Yes," you answer. "Also heard you defending me.” You gather the courage to repeat the words he’d used: "I warmed right up to you."

“You did,” he tells you, and the way he looks at you then only spells trouble. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, actually.”

“Okay,” you say slowly.

“To tell you the truth, I… I meant what I said, about why I stuck around. But the reason I joined in the first place was because of you.”

“Me?” You ask, puffing a doubtful sound out between your lips. “What did I do that made you want to join?”

“You sang.”

You come to a standstill as you wait for him to elaborate. What was he saying?

“The day we first met,” he continues. “I hadn’t heard that song in years, and I was wary of you after the snares incident, but then you sang that song, and I knew it was a sign that I should come with you.”

You’re unable to speak at first. “That’s what changed your mind?”

“I knew, right then and there, that I would follow you anywhere. As long as you’d let me.”

Your heart leaps into your throat and you feel as though you’re in a free fall.

You watch his hand drift up toward your face and a panic starts to surge through your bones. He was interested in you, of all people? But you were nothing special, and Charles was handsome, kind, thoughtful, and steady as stone. You contemplate letting him cradle your face, wondering how it would feel for his large hand to envelope your cheek in warmth and tenderness. But would he understand, when your fears reared their ugly heads? When you couldn’t lie down with him? When you couldn’t let him see you in all your cracked and broken glory? Perhaps it was easier not to give him the chance to let you down.

“Charles,” you say quietly, gently grabbing his wrist to stop him just before he makes contact with your face.

He frowns. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked.”

“No, it’s not… It’s not that,” you tell him, unable to look at him. You rise from the log and start to pace about. You stop in your tracks, realizing that this moment was incredibly similar to your conversation with Arthur, only it was your turn to dodge Charles’ confession.

“There’s somebody else, isn’t there?” He asks neutrally, his expression unreadable.

“No,” you answer, much too quickly, and one corner of his mouth turns up. 

“Arthur?”

“I don’t –”

“It’s alright,” he assures you. “I had a feeling.”

Your face flushes with heat. You think about when you’d tried to bring up how you felt about Arthur earlier: he’d just cleared his throat and changed the subject.

“Just figured I’d try my luck. If you don’t feel the same, I understand. Disappointed, but I get it. Arthur is, well,” he grins, scrubbing a hand over the stubble on his face. “You know.”

You remember when Charles had joked with you: _What’s not to like?_

“Well, it doesn’t matter how I feel about him,” you pout quietly. “I don’t even _know_ how I feel about him. But I’m fairly certain he doesn’t feel the same.”

Charles raises a brow at you. “You sure about that?”

You cock your head slightly as you consider that. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he shrugs, but you don’t believe his acceptance. It’s like he knows something you don’t.

“Look, Charles,” you continue. “It’s not that I don’t feel… You’ve become pretty important to me, I just… Don’t know that I’d be able to give you what you’re looking for. I’m not ready for that kind of commitment.”

“Because of Dalton,” he guesses. 

“Because of Dalton,” you confirm. “I just… I don’t know, sometimes I feel like I’m… damaged goods.”

“I understand,” he says, standing up to meet you where you’re at. “That’s fair. But hey,” he says, getting your attention. “I certainly don’t see you as damaged goods. I’m willing to bet Arthur doesn’t either.”

“I’m really sorry,” you say, hiding your face in your hands. 

“Don’t be,” he tells you. “You don’t owe me anything. And I won’t hold it against you. But, if you change your mind, if you ever feel ready, I’ll be here.”

You stare at him for a few beats as you try to tamper your embarrassment. “Okay.” Your heart swells at the sight of him standing there in the moonlight, ever patient and understanding. You’d been so worried that he would be insulted by your truth, but he’d been so kind. You feel like a fool then for having expected anything different.

You pull him in for a hug and whisper three words against his chest: “Thank you, Charles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy y'all.  
> Hope everyone had a good couple of weeks while you waited for this update.  
> I appreciate y'all so much for being patient/understanding with me, and I've been so excited for you to read this chapter.  
> (I wanted to try having a gif at the chapter start but couldn't get it working)  
> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and commenting regularly, and to anyone who decided to check this story out on a whim. It means the world to me.  
> I hope February was kind to everyone, and that March is off to a decent start! I'll see you soon <3


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